The head was a shapeless bundle, so swathed it was with bandages and
cloths, and what part of the face was visible was discolored and pigmented
with drugs. Stretched under the white sheet the man looked immensely tall
--as Horner saw with vague misgiving--and he lay in an odd, inhuman
fashion, as though he had been all broken to pieces. His attempts to move
were constantly soothed by the nurse, and he as constantly renewed such
attempts; and one hand, though torn and bandaged, was not to be restrained
from a wandering, restless movement which Meredith felt to be pathetic. He
had entered the room with a flare of hate for the thug whom he had come to
see die, and who had struck down the old friend whose nearness he had
never known until it was too late. But at first sight of the broken figure
he felt all animosity fall away from him; only awe remained, and a
growing, traitorous pity as he watched the long, white fingers of the
Teller "pick at the coverlet." The man was muttering rapid fragments of
words, and syllables.
"Somehow I feel a sense of wrong," Meredith whispered to Gay. "I feel as
if I had done the fellow to death myself, as if it were all out of gear. I
know, now, how Henry felt over the great Guisard. My God, how tall he
looks! That doesn't seem to me like a thug's hand."
The surgeon nodded.
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