With much of the dignity of courage, as she recalled her self-reliant life and her right to be free from accountability to this man, she released her arm from his grasp and stood looking full at him. She had never been so handsome, in his eyes. A shade came over them while he looked back at her, as if she drew the very light out of them to herself.
“This time, at least, I will leave nothing unsaid,” he went on, folding his hands before him, clearly to prevent his being betrayed into any impetuous gesture; “this last time at least I will not be tortured with afterthoughts of a lost opportunity. Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”
“Was it of him you spoke in your ungovernable rage and violence?” Lizzie Hexam demanded with spirit.
He bit his lip, and looked at her, and said never a word.
“Was it Mr. Wrayburn that you threatened?”
He bit his lip again, and looked at her, and said never a word.
“You asked me to hear you out, and you will not speak. Let me find my brother.”
“Stay! I threatened no one.”
Her look dropped for an instant to his bleeding hand. He lifted it to his mouth, wiped it on his sleeve, and again folded it over the other. “ Mr. Eugene Wrayburn,” he repeated.
“Why do you mention that name again and again, Mr. Headstone?”
“Because it is the text of the little I have left to say. Observe! There are no threats in it. If I utter a threat, stop me, and fasten it upon me. Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”