"You're willin', then?"
"No, Hanna, not willin'."
"You can't keep me from it. Incompatibility is grounds!"
The fires of her rebellion, doused for the moment, broke out again, flaming
in her cheeks.
He raised himself to his elbow, regarding her there in her flush, the
white line of her throat whiter because of it. She was strangely, not
inconsiderably taller.
"Why, Hanna, what you been doin' to yourself?"
Her hand flew to a new and elaborately piled coiffure, a half-fringe of
curling-iron, little fluffed out tendrils escaping down her neck.
"In--incompatibility is grounds."
"It's mighty becomin', Hanna. Mighty becomin'."
"It's grounds, all right!"
"'Grounds'? Grounds for what, Hanna?"
She looked away, her throat distending as she swallowed.
"Divorce."
There was a pause, then so long that she had a sense of falling through its
space.
"Look at me, Hanna!"
She swung her gaze reluctantly to his. He was sitting erect now, a kind of
pallor setting in behind the black beard.
"Leggo!" she said, loosening his tightening hand from her wrists. "Leggo;
you hurt!"
"I--take it when a woman uses that word in her own home, she means it.
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