He could not help but notice that she hesitated a bit before the word alone. Undoubtedly she could not get the thought of those things--those live things she so feared, out of her head. The things that waited for her in the shadows.
They walked along the wet pavements together.
An engine shrieked weirdly above them, like something neither bird nor beast; like something inhuman.
Under a street lamp she glanced up at him curiously.
He heard her gasp. He looked down at her. He saw her eyes widen in terror; he saw her pale, bare hands creep uncertain, stumbling to her neck, as if she were choking. He heard her voice rattling in her throat.
He put his hand on her shoulder. He could feel her shudder, as she writhed and twisted under his touch.
"Let go of me." Her voice was hoarse. "Let go of me, I say!"
For some unaccountable reason his fingers closed all the more tightly on her shrinking flesh.
He thought of the drunkard and he thought of her.
Suddenly he felt quite furious; stilly, sinisterly furious.
He said it stolidly. His narrow, black eyes were unwavering on her.
"Let me go," she whimpered. "I ain't done nothing to you. I couldn't have got on to your being--a--Chink."
"What diffelence does that make?" He asked. And then he reiterated with careful precision: "I tell you I'm a 'Melican."
Her words came to him in a gurgle of terror.
"I hate you. I hate all of your yellow faces--and them eyes! I hate them horrid, nasty--eyes!"
He bent his head until his face almost touched hers. His strong, angry fingers held her firmly by either arm.
She struggled, inane with fear. She fought, trying to free herself, to tear away from the vise-like grip of those awful hands; swaying like a tortured, trapped creature against his strength. She could feel the intensity, the calm scrutiny of his long, narrow eyes upon her.
He saw her fall to the pavement; he saw her head strike the curb.
He stood there watching her as she lay, outlined by the light colored material of her dress against the wet blackness of the asphalt.
"What diffelence does it make if I am a Chinaman?"
He asked it as he bent over her. But she did not answer. The question went out into the heavy stillness, hanging there to be echoed deafeningly by a thousand silent tongues.