“You’ve come from St Just, have you?” she said.
He looked at her with those clear, dark, inscrutable Cornish eyes, and answered at length:
“No, from Penzance.”
“Penzance!—but you’re not thinking of going back there tonight?”
“No—no.”
He still looked at her with those wide, clear eyes that seemed like very bright agate. Her anger began to rise. It was seen on her brow. Yet her voice was still suave and deprecating.
“I thought not—but you’re not living in these parts, are you?”
“No—no, I’m not living here.” He was always slow in answering, as if something intervened between him and any outside question.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “You’ve got relations down here.”
Again he looked straight into her eyes, as if looking her into silence.