I know myself for no Missis of
yours, and I'll thank you to go out of this house, this minute, before I
get those that will put you out.'
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 sing-song 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.
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