"Marr and Valentine one man! He told you that?"
"He says to me--'I'm Marr.'"
Cuckoo repeated the words steadily, but like a parrot. The doctor said
nothing, only looked at her and at the photograph. He was thinking now
of his suspicion as to Valentine's sanity. Had he, perhaps in his
madness, been playing on the ignorance of the lady of the feathers?
She went on:
"It was on the night he told me all that. I couldn't understand what he
is and what he's doing. And he said that the real Valentine had gone. And
then he said--'I am Marr.'"
"The real Valentine gone. Yes," said the doctor, gravely, "that is true.
Does he then know that he is--?" "Mad" was on his lips, but he checked
himself.
"What else did he say that night?" he asked. "Can you remember? If you
succeed, you may help Julian."
Cuckoo frowned till her long, broad eyebrows nearly met. The grimace gave
her the aspect of a sinister boy, bold and audacious. For she protruded
her under lip, too, and the graces of ardent feeling, of pain and of
passion, died out of her eyes. But this abrupt and hard mask was only
caused by the effort she was making after thought, after understanding.
She pressed her feet upon the ground, and the toes inside her worn shoes
curved themselves inwards.
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