Judith could see, now that his face was pain-struck, how much of evil there was in the soul that had been disguised by a certain dash of masculine overbearing and brusqueness.
“What are you looking at?” asked Coppinger, glancing up.
“I was thinking,” answered Judith.
“Of what?”
“Of you—of Wyvill, of the wreck on Doom Bar, of the jewels of Lady Knighton, and last of all of Jamie’s maltreatment.”
“And what of all that?” he said in irritable scorn.
“That I need not say. I have drawn my own conclusions.”
“You torment me, you—when I am ill? They call me Cruel, but it is you who are cruel.”
Judith did not wish to be drawn into discussion that must be fruitless. She said, quietly, in altered tone, “Can I get you anything to comfort you?”
“No—go your way. This will pass. Besides, it is naught to you. Go; I would be left alone.”