“Look at me,” she said.
With an effort Nancy raised her frightened eyes.
“I have no reason to dislike you,” said the mad woman, “and you need not fear me. I am anxious to have a right good stare at you, though. I am devoured with curiosity about you.”
“Well, here I am,” said Nance.
“Here you are, indeed. What a finicking sort of voice you have, and your face, although pretty, is not worth much. Perhaps I am wrong though—you have an obstinate chin—I am glad you have an obstinate chin. You may possibly have strength of character. I hate people without strength of character.”
As she spoke, the woman placed her hand under Nancy’s chin, raised her face and looked full into it. Her dancing wild eyes scanned each feature. Presently she turned away laughing again.
“I do not hate you,” she said; “after all, you are harmless—you cannot interfere with me. I hate your husband, though, and I hate Murray Cameron.”
“But Murray is your child,” said Nancy, shocked.
“He is; but he has interfered with me, and I hate him. It was after his birth I went off my head. Have I not good reason to dislike one who did me an injury of that sort? I loved the boy’s father. Pah! what am I talking about? Love was my undoing. Yes, I have had a strange history. I’ll tell you my story some day, Mrs. Adrian Rowton. You must come and see me some day in the Queen Anne wing.”
“Well, let me take you home now,” said Nance in a soothing tone.