"Good of you to compare me
with her! That's the last straw!"
"I'm not comparing you. I'm merely saying that you can't judge her.
How could you, when your life has been so different?"
"Thank Heaven for that."
"If you'd let me bring her here to see you--"
"No, thanks."
"You're unjust."
"You think so?"
"And unkind. That's not like the little friend I've come to--like so
much."
"You're kind enough for two, Mr. Lindsay. She really doesn't need
another friend so long as she has you," she retorted with a flash of
contemptuous eyes. "In New York we're not used to being so kind to
people of her sort."
Clay lifted a hand. "Stop right there, Miss Beatrice. You don't want
to say anything you'll be sorry for."
"I'll say this," she cut back. "The men I know wouldn't invite a woman
to their rooms at midnight and pass her off as their sister--and then
expect people to know her. They would be kinder to themselves--and to
their own reputations."
She was striking out savagely, relentlessly, in spite of the better
judgment that whispered restraint. She wanted desperately to hurt him,
as he had hurt her, even though she had to behave badly to do it.
"Will you tell me what else there was to do? Where could I have taken
her at that time of night? Are reputable hotels open at midnight to
lone women, wet and ragged, who come without baggage either alone or
escorted by a man?"
"I'm not telling you what you ought to have done, Mr.
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