Nadia looked her up and down with cold contempt and a colder pity.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Crawford. Your time is not yet. Not quite yet.” She pushed back her shining ebony hair with her two hands. “It appears I must be the one to do it at that—the chosen of the Lord. For the mortification of the flesh.” She was speaking to herself, not to Sydney.
Crawford shifted a little, and moaned.
“I am in pain,” he said. “Sydney.”
“Yes?” Sydney neither stirred, nor looked toward him.
“I am in pain.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Yes, something is wrong.”
Neil seemed to be considering that. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and on the backs of his hands lying weakly on the coverlid. His dry lips thinned perceptibly. Then, on a breath, he only said again: