"Perhaps, poor thing," said Luke, whose madness seemed really sane this night, "perhaps you hate her."
Luke's strange concentration instantly made us feel a tension, as of hate, in the Colonel's body.
"I?" The Colonel looked up sharply, like a culprit. "I! I wouldn't say that, if I were you."
"Perhaps that's what's the matter," said Luke, with mad, beautiful calm. "Why can't you feel kindly towards her, poor thing! She must have been done out of a lot while she lived."
It was as if he had one foot in life and one in death, and knew both sides. To us it was like madness.
"I—I!" stammered the Colonel; and his face was a study. Expression after expression moved across it: of fear, repudiation, dismay, anger, repulsion, bewilderment, guilt. "I was good to her."
"Ah yes," said Luke. "Perhaps you were good to her. But was your body good to poor Lucy's body, poor dead thing!"
He seemed to be better acquainted with the ghost than with us.
The Colonel gazed blankly at Luke, and his eyes went up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down.
"My body!" he said blankly.