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"I am sorry, my lady. I did not mean to frighten you, but you didn't hear me call your name." Degas took a step closer; close enough that they could have a conversation without calling statements and responses across the distance, far enough that all propriety was preserved.
He looked her up and down, seeing her differently than before. She was more beautiful than ever, even with bruises, perhaps especially with them. He had liked her very much before when he had thought of her as a lovely, fiesty, and very desirable girl. Now he looked at a woman and he was not displeased.
"I meant... I meant to apologize..." He looked at her beseechingly, his words just loud enough for her to hear and no louder. He looked into her eyes, afraid to see what he suspected would lay there: she would blame him for her ordeal, and she had every right to do so. He did not know what to expect, but he braced himself for the worst.
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