She was
curiously grave. "Nigel, I believe in certain things you do not believe
in. I believe black thoughts breed black ills to those who think them.
It is not a new idea. There is an old Oriental proverb which says,
'Curses, like chickens, come home to roost.' I believe also that
the worst--the very worst CANNOT be done to those who think
steadily--steadily--only of the best. To you that is merely superstition
to be laughed at. That is a matter of opinion. But--don't go on with
this thing--DON'T GO ON WITH IT. Stop and think it over."
He stared at her furiously--tried to laugh outright, and failed because
the look in her eyes was so odd in its strength and stillness.
"You think you can lay some weird spell upon me," he jeered
sardonically.
"No, I don't," she answered. "I could not if I would. It is no affair of
mine. It is your affair only--and there is nothing weird about it. Don't
go on, I tell you. Think better of it."
She turned about without further speech, and walked away from him with
light swiftness over the marsh. Oddly enough, he did not even attempt to
follow her. He felt a little weak--perhaps because a certain thing she
had said had brought back to him a familiar touch of the horrors.
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