THE BRASS BOWL
He looked at her in sidelong fashion, speculative, calculating, relentless. And she bowed her head, assenting, "Yes"
"You're dead right, little woman. Got you. Um-mmm."
She made no reply; she could have made none aside from raising an outcry, although now she was regaining something of her shattered poise, and with it the ability to accept the situation quietly, for a little time (she could not guess how long she could endure the strain), pending an opportunity to turn the tables on this, her persecutor.
"What is it," she said presently, with some effort—"what is it you wish with me?"
"I have my purpose," with a grim smile.
"You will not tell me?"
"You've guessed it, my lady; I will not—just yet. Wait a bit."
She spurred her flagging spirit until it flashed defiance. "Mr. Anisty!"
"Yes?" he responded with a curling lip, cold eyes to hers.
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