Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. “He will probably make a statement to-night. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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