Clarice heard the click of a match-box, the scraping of a lucifer, and Drake held the lighted match above his head.
'You!' he said.
Clarice moved out from the curtain and confronted him.

She did not answer, and he did not speak again.

Clarice was in no doubt as to the meaning of his cry.

His eyes even in that unsteady light told it to her only too clearly.
And this was the man whom she had believed to stand in no need of a woman's companionship.

The thought at the actual moment of its occurrence sent a strange thrill of disappointment through her; she had built up her pride in him so confidently upon this notion of his independence.