One more passer-by; and always would she remember his patience and tenderness and disinterestedness. She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. We’re closer than you think. Miss Mary and me, and Martha too sometimes. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. He was damned if he knew what to do.
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