Barres stared at the sheaf of torn paper, lying crumpled up in his open hand, then his amazed gaze rested on Thessalie:
“Is this the letter you wrote to me?” he inquired.
“Yes. May I have the remains of my letter?” she asked calmly.
He handed over the bits of paper without a word, and she opened her gold-mesh bag and dropped them in.
There was a moment’s silence, then Barres said:
“Did he strike you, Dulcie?”
“Yes, when he thought he couldn’t get away from me.”
“You hung on to him?”
“I tried to.”
Thessalie stepped closer, impulsively, and framed Dulcie’s pallid, blood-smeared face in both of her cool, white hands.