He glanced at her for a moment or so, and then turned away with aversion, but without precipitation. He said that he would return when he had visited another prisoner, and these words, so calm and cold, crept like ice through her heart.
He had not evinced the slightest passion or hesitation, but was perfectly calm and self-possessed.
She was vexed—she shuddered. This was not a man! He was either supremely dense and unimpressionable, or else sublime as an angel.
In either case he was impregnable.
She heard him enter the cell adjoining her own, and hastily finishing her task she adjusted her hair, and waited patiently until he had concluded his ministrations to the other prisoner.
He remained with No. 42 exactly the same length of time that he had accorded to her on the previous occasions. It was therefore clear that he made no distinction between the other prisoners and herself.
Upon discovering this she was deeply mortified.
Consumed by bitter thoughts and anxieties, for the first time she omitted to look at him or to even listen to his discourse. For the first time she was deaf to his voice, or as blind to his face as she had wished him to believe.
“Oh, you impenetrable creature!” she exclaimed, when she was again alone. “Oh, you man without a passion! I will not rest till I have found out a flaw in your armour—till I have learnt where I can wound you. You must be human—you must be weak. I bide my time. I must and will triumph.”
She dug her nails deep into her flesh, and gnawed her lips, to prevent herself from shrieking aloud.