“That’s the way to feed a wild beast,” he said, “if I touched you again I might kill you.”
Bibi lifted the glass in his left hand; his head was very unsteady, and he spilt some of the wine down his chin; the stuff stung his cut lips, but he drank it down, and began to mumble the bread. The room was full of the dusk, and Manon lit the candle. Paul had gone to the window, and was sitting on the table, watching Bibi. The candle light lit up Brent’s face; it was a serious, frowning face, the face of a man who had made up his mind about something.
“I’ll take a sandwich with me,” he said.
The candle light flickered in Manon’s eyes.
“But where are you going?”
“Half-way to Ste. Claire; sort of slave-gang stunt. He has got to foot it somehow.”
She looked into her man’s eyes and said nothing. There was a calm blue glare in them that she could not have softened even if she had pitied Bibi.
“Supposing he cannot walk so far?”
“We didn’t ask him to come here. He is going to walk four miles. After that—I have finished with him.”
He turned to Bibi.