Pansy stretched out her hand. The action brought into view a network of disfiguring red ridges and scars on her upper arm, marring an otherwise perfect limb.
"Please give me a drink," she finished.
The excitement of the surprise she had prepared was dying down, leaving her looking what she really was—worn out with the exertion of saving him.
Crossing to the wash-stand, Le Breton picked up a glass. Pouring a small dose of brandy into it, he added the requisite water and brought it back to the girl.
Then he seated himself on the bedside, watching her as she drank it.
"What a nasty scar you have on your arm," he remarked, is if any flaw on such perfection annoyed him.
"I've worse scars here and here," she replied, touching her side and thigh; "and they don't look at all pretty. 'The Sultan' did them."
He started slightly.
"The Sultan! What Sultan?"
"A brown Sultan. A very nice Sultan, but we understand one another now."