He looked genuinely puzzled.
“The woman at Marlow,” I reminded him, watching the effect of my words closely.
An ugly brooding expression settled down on his face. He seemed to have forgotten my presence.
“I might have killed her,” he said. “Sometimes I believe that I meant to kill her. . . .”
A wild rush of feeling, hatred of the dead woman, surged through me. I could have killed her that moment, had she stood before me. . . . For he must have loved her once—he must—he must—to have felt like that!
I regained control of myself and spoke in my normal voice:
“We seem to have said all there is to be said—except good night.”
“Good night and good-bye, Miss Beddingfeld.”
“Au revoir, Mr. Lucas.”
Again he flinched at the name. He came nearer.