"You — you blasted Yank!" cried Katharine Bohun, with a violence of relief which made her voice quaver. Then she began to laugh, but not in ridicule. It seemed difficult for her to stop.
"Er-yes. Exactly."
"You're quite the craziest person I ever met."
"On the contrary, you blasted Limey, I am regarded as-"
"And you mustn't talk like that; at least, you see-that is, of course, I mean — where anybody else can hear you." "Ho?"
She caught herself up, nervously. "Never mind. Be sensible again. I've got to be. I mean — Marcia. I can't think of anything else. Marcia could do all those things you were speaking about. Marcia was herself; she was alone; she was wonderful. in her own way." Again she clenched her hands. "And maybe — I've been thinking of this too-maybe she was satisfied. She's lying down there dead. But she died when she had everything she wanted; when she had everything a woman ever wanted; when she was alone and splendid and not growing old. Who wouldn't give death for that? And if somebody smashed in her head with the loaded end of a riding-crop, then maybe it was worth it."
Even in her rush she stopped suddenly. You could feel unspoken words shut off as at the closing of a door. And their import was as palpable as the slam of a door in the cold room.
Bennett stared at her. "With a riding-crop?" he said. He should never have spoken. He realized it as soon as
the words were out. That closing door was one that shut him from her.
She rose from the window-seat.