"That's written down."
"Answer my question, please. Do you admit that you said, just after your husband's death at your hands, that you were not sorry you had killed him?"
"That's written down," repeated Lucy Towers stubbornly. And the stubbornness sent a chill through the red mist; a chill that pierced to Hector Brunton's very marrow. Thus--thus stubborn and unwrithing--thus clear-eyed and contemptuous, had this same woman outfaced him, long and long ago in the bright, miserable drawing-room at Lancaster Gate.
"You have admitted"--there was a singing in the K.C.'s ears; he could hardly hear his own voice--"that you love your cousin, Robert Fielding. I put it to you that you are Robert Fielding's mistress."
"No."
"I put it to you that you went to Robert Fielding's room nightly."
"It's a lie."
"I put it to you that ever since Robert Fielding came to live at 25 Laburnum Grove you have been in the habit of misconducting yourself with him."
"It's a lie."
"I put it to you"--God! if only he could make her writhe; if only he could see one stab of pain twitch those cheeks--"that you love Robert Fielding."