The man rose to his feet, stretching his head towards her a little. He was a handsomely built Cornishman in the prime of life.
“What you say, eh? You don’t know me?” he said, in his singsong voice, emotionless, but rather smothered and pressing: it reminded one of the girl’s. “I should know you anywhere, you see. I should! I shouldn’t have to look twice to know you, you see. You see, now, don’t you?”
The woman was baffled.
“So you may say,” she replied, staccato. “So you may say. That’s easy enough. My name’s known, and respected, by most people for ten miles round. But I don’t know you.”
Her voice ran to sarcasm. “I can’t say I know you. You’re a perfect stranger to me, and I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on you before tonight.”
Her voice was very flexible and sarcastic.
“Yes, you have,” replied the man, in his reasonable way.” Yes, you have. Your name’s my name, and that girl Maryann is my girl; she’s my daughter. You’re my Missis right enough. As sure as I’m Willie Nankervis.”
He spoke as if it were an accepted fact. His face was handsome, with a strange, watchful alertness and a fundamental fixity of intention that maddened her.
“You villain!” she cried. “You villain, to come to this house and dare to speak to me. You villain, you down-right rascal!”
He looked at her.