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‘Do what?’ Holden lifted me onto his lap in one fluid motion and stroked my left arm. ‘This. This bruise on your arm.’ Cop sight. ‘Off the record?’ ‘If that’s what it takes to get you to talk.’ ‘Then, yes.’ Holden closed his eyes, his jaw held tight. ‘That’s why I took the ring off.’ ‘You should have done more than that, Kennedy.’ ‘I was kinda in shock. My fiancé had just cursed at me and then grabbed me—in a public place, mind you. My focus was on getting out of there.’ ‘You should have pressed charges. Look at this thing!’ ‘It honestly looked worse a couple days ago.’ Which was true. Even as a painter, I had never seen such shades of blue and purple before the bruise showed up on my arm. The contusion had started to yellow and not look so angry now, but it did little to settle Holden. ‘Yeah, I’m sure it did.’ ‘Look. Can we just not talk about it? What’s done is done.’ ‘Is it done, Kennedy? Because you weren’t so sure earlier. Please tell me you’re sure now.’ When I didn’t. He commanded with it; it was the medium through which his thanks were conveyed. In short, his whole appearance produced on the mind the impression of a corpse with living eyes, and nothing could be more startling than to observe the expression of anger or joy suddenly lighting up these organs, while the rest of the rigid and marble-like features were utterly deprived of the power of participation. Three persons only could understand this language of the poor paralytic; these were Villefort, Valentine, and the old servant of whom we have already spoken. But as Villefort saw his father but seldom, and then only when absolutely obliged, and as he never took any pains to please or gratify him when he was there, all the old man's happiness was centred in his granddaughter. Valentine, by means of her love, her patience, and her devotion, had learned to read in Noirtier's look all the varied feelings which were passing in his mind. To this dumb language, which was so unintelligible to.
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