“You ’d better get up now,” he said—his voice sounded rough and indifferent and she lifted indignant eyes, but he did not see her. His gaze was still on the horizon, holding it with intent look.
She got up and gathered the little loose curls in her hands, wringing the water from them and shaking them apart.
Then she got to her knees and crawled to the seat, shivering a little. Off to the left, the woods of the Point shut off the main force of the wind, but the breeze was still fresh. He took off his coat and tossed it to her. “Put that on,” he said briefly.
It fell on the seat beside her, but she did not touch it or look at it. Her little face had a firm look.
His gaze left the horizon, for a flash, and came back. “You put on that coat,” he said.
“I don’t want it—” The words trailed away in a sob.
He did not look at her again. “You ’ll do as I tell you,” he said quietly—“or I shall make you.”
She reached out for the coat and put it on, drawing it miserably about her chin—“I think you are horrid.” She was wiping away the tears that ran quickly down.
“I don’t care what you think—You might have been killed,” he added after a pause.
“I’d rather—have been—killed.” The breath she drew was a quick sob.