He set his teeth and tightened his grip, and spoke again in the same
quiet voice.
"Look at me! That's right. Put your hands down, and keep them so.
You must not touch your throat."
He held her eyes with his own as he spoke, and after a momentary
struggle and shrinking she grew quiet, and he felt her body relax. Her
eyes closed and she sank down against the pillow, turning her face
towards him.
"_Pauvre enfant_!" Emile muttered.
He released her hands and they lay still, and she made no movement to
hinder him as he re-adjusted the bandage.
He stood looking down upon her. A vast compassion shone in the grey
eyes, that she had only seen hard and penetrating. The gesture of mute
abandonment, the ready compliance had appealed to his complex nature,
which he kept hidden under an armour of coldness and cynicism. For an
instant his years of outlawry and poverty were blotted out and he had
gone back to the days in Russia when he had first come into his
kingdom, and had believed women faithful and their honour a thing on
which to stake one's own.
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