Now that she was
actually shut up alone with Valentine, fear returned upon her and
banished every other feeling, every desire except the desire to be
away from him. She ran her tongue over her lips, which had suddenly
become dry.
"What are you come for?" she asked, never taking her eyes from his.
"To see you. I have never yet returned your kind call upon me."
"Eh?"
Cuckoo spoke in the tone of one who had become deaf, and she felt as if
the agitation of her mind actually clamoured within her like a crowd of
human voices, deadening sounds from without. Valentine repeated his
remark, adding:
"Won't you ask me to sit down?"
He put his hand on the back of a chair.
"May I?"
Cuckoo gave her body a jerk which brought her feet down to the floor, so
that she was sitting upright. She pushed out one of her hands as if in
protest.
"You can't sit here," she murmured.
"I? Why not?"
"I can't have you here, nor I won't either."
Her voice was growing louder and fiercer as the first paralysis of
surprise died gradually away from her. After all, she had not buckled
on her armour only to run away from the enemy in it. The street Arab
impudence was not quite killed in her by the strange influence of this
man.
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