She cowered before him, choking from the grip he had given her throat, and hiding her face behind her arm. Bertrand stood over her, as though tempted to strike again.
“No, not that!”
Tiphaïne, unhurt, her face pale, her eyes full of pity, came between Bertrand and the girl.
“Be careful, the cat is mad!”
“You are too rough—and blind.”
Arletta still cowered against the bed, as though Bertrand’s hands had throttled her last hope. The lust for revenge had flowed from her like wine from a broken jar.
Tiphaïne bent over Arletta, waving Bertrand aside when he sought to interfere. The significance of the scene had flashed suddenly before her eyes, moving her not to anger but to a spasm of pity.
There was no need for her to question Arletta. The flare of passion had died out of her, and she looked like a frightened child, ashamed and humbled.
“Come!”
Arletta writhed from her touch and hid her face.