"Do you understand it?" laughed he nervously, for her manner
was disquieting.
"Perfectly."
"You stared at the paper as if it were a puzzle."
"It is," said she.
"Come into the library and we'll sign and have it over with."
She laid the papers on the dressing table, took up her brush,
drew it slowly over her hair several times.
"Wake up," cried he, good humoredly. "Come on into the
library." And he went to the threshold.
She continued brushing her hair. "I can't sign," said she.
There was the complete absence of emotion that caused her to
be misunderstood always by those who did not know her
peculiarities. No one could have suspected the vision of the
old women of the dive before her eyes, the sound of the
hunchback's piano in her ears, the smell of foul liquors and
foul bodies and foul breaths in her nostrils. Yet she repeated:
"No--I can't sign."
He returned to his chair, seated himself, a slight cloud on his
brow, a wicked smile on his lips. "Now what the devil!" said he
gently, a jeer in his quiet voice. "What's all this about?"
"I can't marry you," said she. "I wish to live on as we are."
"But if we do that we can't get up where we want to go."
"I don't wish to know anyone but interesting men of the sort
that does things--and women of my own sort. Those people have
no interest in conventionalities."
"That's not the crowd we set out to conquer," said he.
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