He did not speak for a moment. “The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. ‘One does not blow off the head of a man with whom one is in love, en effet. Sorry to be so nosy. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later.
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