Hanaud, for his part, asked for no reply from him.

Indeed, he did not look towards Harry Wethermill's face at all.

Ricardo understood.

Hanaud did not mean to be deterred by the suffering written there.
He went down again into the little gay salon lit with flowers and August sunlight, and stood beside the couch gazing at it with troubled eyes.

And, as he gazed, he closed his eyes and shivered.