There was a fracture
somewhere, as James Randolph's jargon had it, in her unconscious mind.
She didn't let him go far with that. He saw her blaze up in a splendid
burst of wrath, as she had blazed once--oh, an eternity ago, at a
street-car conductor. Her challenge rang like a sword out of a scabbard.
"We'll settle that before we go any further," she said. "Telephone for
James Randolph, or any other alienist you like. Let him take me and put
me in a sanatorium somewhere and keep me under observation as long as he
pleases, until he's satisfied whether I'm out of my mind or not. But
unless you're willing to do that, don't call me irresponsible."
He grew more reasonable as a belief in her complete seriousness and
determination sobered him. He made desperate efforts to recover his
self-control--to get his big, cool, fine mechanism of a mind into
action. But his mind, to his complete bewilderment, betrayed him. He'd
always looked at Rose before, through the lens of his emotions. But now
that he forced himself to look at her through the non-refracting window
from which he looked at the rest of the world, she compelled him again
and again to admit that she was right.
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