For a single instant, hatred, unveiled, passionate, shone out at him like sudden, darting lightning.

For a single instant she dared him with the courage born of hatred.

It was a challenge so distinct and personal, so fierce, that he, satiated for the moment with revenge, drew back instinctively before it, as an animal shrinks from the flame.
She uttered not a word.

She did not after that one scorching glance deign to do battle with him.

Without a gesture she dismissed him, kneeling beside his vanquished foe as though he were already gone.
And--perhaps it was the utter intrepidity of her bearing that deprived him of the power to carry his brutality any further just then--perhaps the ferocity that he had never before encountered in those grey eyes cowed him somewhat in spite of the madness that still sang in his veins--whatever the motive power it was too potent to resist--Sir Giles turned and tramped heavily away.
Anne did not watch him go.