"Hurt?" She echoed the word stupidly. No one ever thought she could be hurt; what was done to her was punishment and justice.
"Yes. Those stripes—they must be painful?"
She gave a gesture of assent with her head, but she did not answer.
"Who beat you?" he pursued.
A cloud of passion swept over her bent face.
"Flamma."
"You were wicked?"
"They said so."
"And what do you do when you are beaten?"
"I shut my mouth."