She was lying on the divan, a large tray of cigarette stubs beside her. She looked ill, ****. Suddenly she got up, started to walk toward me. 'When I have a child,' she said, 'neither you nor anyone else could ever prove it wasn't yours. You'd like to have an heir, wouldn't you, Max, for your precious Manderley?' Then she started to laugh. 'How funny! How supremely, wonderfully funny! I've been a perfect mother just as I've been the perfect wife! No one will ever know. Now, it ought to give you the thrill of your life, Max, to watch my son grow bigger day by day and to know that when you die, Manderley will be his.' She was face to face with me. One hand in her pocket, the other holding a cigarette. She was smiling: 'Well Max. What are you going to do about it? Aren't you going to kill me?' I suppose I went mad for a moment. I must have struck her. She stood staring at me. She looked almost triumphant. Then she started toward me again, smiling. Suddenly she stumbled and fell. When I looked down, ages afterwards it seemed, she was lying on the floor. She'd struck her head on a heavy piece of ship's tackle. I remember wondering why she was still smiling. Then I realized she was dead.