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[Good-naturedly, with a trace of pride]

You flatter me, Nina. I wish I thought that. But he isn’t a bit like me, luckily for him. He’s a dead ringer for Gordon Shaw at his best.

[Thinking]

Shaw I’ve seen his picture in the gym  my Gordon is better looking  he once told me Shaw was an old beau of his mother’s  they say she was beautiful once

[Shaking her head — scornfully]

Don’t be modest, Sam. Gordon is you. He may be a fine athlete like Gordon Shaw, because you’ve held that out to him as your ideal, but there the resemblance ceases. He isn’t really like him at all, not the slightest bit!

[Restraining his anger with difficulty—thinking]

I’m getting sick of this! she’s carrying her jealous grouch too far!

[Suddenly exploding, pounds his fist on the rail]

Damn it, Nina, if you had any feeling you couldn’t—right at the moment when he’s probably getting into the shell—

[He stops, trying to control himself, panting, his face red]

[Staring at him with repulsion—with cool disdain]

I didn’t say anything so dire, did I—merely that Gordon resembles you in character.