She divined that, for some reason, Valentine was
anxious that she should not see him. That was enough. She would, at
whatever cost, make his acquaintance.
"I'll see him if I like," she said hastily, lost to any appreciation
of wisdom, through the desire of aiming an instant blow at Valentine.
"Of course! Why not?" was his reply.
"You don't want me to. I can see that," she went on, still more
unadvisedly. "You needn't think as you can get over me so easily."
Valentine's smile showed a certain contempt that angered her.
"I know you," she cried.
"Do you?" he said. "I wonder if you would like to know me? Do you
remember Marr?"
The lady of the feathers turned cold.
"Marr!" she faltered; "what of him?"
"You have not forgotten him."
"He's dead!"
A pause.
"He's dead, I say."
"Exactly! As dead as a strong man who has lived long in the world ever
can be."
"What d'you mean? I say he's dead and buried and done with." Her voice
was rather noisy and shrill.
"That's just where you make a mistake," Valentine said quite gravely,
rather like a philosopher about to embark upon an argument. "He is not
done with. Suppose you fear a man, you hate him, you kill him, you put
him under the ground, you have not done with him.
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