"I.W., you're hurting me!"

"He what--do you hear?--he what?"

"Don't make me say it! Don't! It--it just happened--with him meaning one
thing all the time and--me another. I was thrown with that kind of a
crowd, I.W., all my life. All the girls, they--It don't make me worse
than it makes him. With me it was once; with him it's--it's--I didn't
know, I.W. My mother she died that year before, and--I needed the job,
and I swear to God, I.W., I--kept hoping even if he never put it in
words he'd fix it. Kill me, if you want to, I.W., but don't throw our
Effie to him! Don't! Don't! Don't!"

She was pounding the floor with her bare palms, her face so distorted
that the mouth drawn tight over the teeth was as wide and empty as a
mask's, and sobs caught and hiccoughed in her throat.

"I didn't know, I.W.! Don't kill me for what I didn't know!"

She crouched back from his knotted face, and he sprang then out of bed,
nightshirt flapping about his knees, and his fists and his bulging eyes
raised to the quiet stars.

"God," he cried, "help me to keep hold of myself! Help me! You--you--"

His voice was so high and so tight in his throat that it stuck, leaving
him in inarticulate invocation.

"I.W.!"