“Count!”
“Royda is gone.”
“She is not dead?”
“By your hand.”
Philippa turned away with the bitterness of death at her heart. For many seconds there was silence in the room. But the man’s eyes never left her form, and the glitter was never quenched for an instant.
“Could I not have seen her?”
“It would have been useless.”
“Then—for Heaven’s sake, let me go.”
As she turned the glitter fastened on her face, which was convulsed with tearless grief. It had seen scorn there and anger, but usually the calmness of self-control and indifference. Never a softer emotion. And as the glitter marked this it seemed to coruscate.
“You will make amends,” Zarka said, taking a step to intercept her.