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.
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