"Just what do you mean by my intimacy?" she asked
evenly.
"You know what I mean," he replied coarsely. "I mean what intimacy with a
man always means to a woman like you."
"The only meaning that a creature of your foul mind can understand," she
retorted smoothly. "If it were worth while to tell you the truth, I would
say that my conduct when alone with Mr. King has been as proper as--as
when I am alone with you."
The taunt maddened him. Interrupted by spells of coughing--choking,
gasping, fighting for breath, his eyes blazing with hatred and lust,
mingling his words with oaths and curses--he raged at her. "And do you
think--that, because I am so nearly dead,--I do not resent what--I saw,
to-day? Do you think--I am so far gone that I cannot--understand--your
interest in this man,--after--watching you, together, all--the afternoon?
Has there been any one--in his studio, except you two, when--he was
painting you in that dress--which you--designed for his benefit? Oh, no,
indeed,--you and your--genius could not be interrupted,--for the sake--of
his art. His art! Great God!--was there ever such a damnable farce--since
hell was invented? Art!--you--_you_--_you_!--" crazed with jealous fury,
he pointed at her with his yellow, shaking, skeleton fingers; and
struggled to raise his voice above that rasping whisper until the cords
of his scrawny neck stood out and his face was distorted with the strain
of his effort--"_You!_ painted as a--modest Quaker Maid,--with all the
charm of innocence,--virtue, and religious piety in your face.
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