"You brute!" she said. "You fiend! You—you—"
"Devil," said Nap. "Why not say it? I shan't contradict you."
He spoke quite quietly, so quietly that, even in the wild tempest of her anger she was awed. There was something unfathomable about him, something that nevertheless arrested her at the very height of her fury. His manner was so still, so deadly still, and so utterly free from cynicism.
She stood and stared at him, a queer sensation of dread making her very heart feel cold.
"I should go if I were you," he said.
But Dot stood still, as if struck powerless.
"You can't do any good," he went on, his tone quite gentle, even remotely kind. "I had to kill something, but it was a pity you chanced to see it. You had better go home and forget it."
Dot's white lips began to move, but it was several seconds before any sound came from them. "What are you going to do?"
"That's my affair," said Nap.
He was still faintly smiling, but his smile appalled her. It was so cold, so impersonal, so void of all vitality.