Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. 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. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. He’s been 274 lookin’ a little down lately. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. I've often regretted that I didn't investigate the matter. . You might even tire of me by then, you know.
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