lieved because she was able to say something which she felt was true.
For the last few days she had felt herself several times near that
madness which is but an intolerable lucidity of apprehension.

The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming nearer, sounding
affected in the peace of the passion-laden earth. He began storming at
her hastily.

"Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah! You'll have to be shown that
somebody can. I can. Nobody . . . " He made a contemptuous hissing
noise. "More likely _you_ can't. They have done something to you.
Something's crushed your pluck. You can't face a man--that's what it is.
What made you like this? Where do you come from? You have been put
upon. The scoundrels--whoever they are, men or women, seem to have
robbed you of your very name. You say you are not Miss Smith. Who are
you, then?"

She did not answer. He muttered, "Not that I care," and fell silent,
because the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls could be
heard at the very gate. But they were not going to bed yet. They passed
on. He waited a little in silence and immobility, then stamped his foot
and lost control of himself. He growled at her in a savage passion. She
felt certain that he was threatening her and calling her names. She was
no stranger to abuse, as we know, but there seemed to be a particular
kind of ferocity in this which was new to her. She began to tremble. The
especially terrifying thing was that she could not make out the nature of
these awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking
anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty
effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice
demanded that he should let her go indoors. "Don't stop me. It's no
use. It's no use," she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy
rising within her, yet without anger against that raging man.

He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly
audible.

"No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that--you white-faced
wisp, you wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the
world. You dare! Haven't I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What
makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen something . . .
Don't speak. I love it . . . No use! And you really think that I can
now go to sea for a year or more, to the other side of the world
somewhere,