'Why, it wasn't you, old fellow!--it was
your body.'
Aubrey could not reply. He hid his face in his hands. The effort of
his own words had shaken him from top to toe. To no human being had
he ever breathed what he had just told his young brother. Life
seemed broken--disorganized.
Desmond was apparently watching the passage of a flock of white
south-westerly clouds across the morning sky. But his brain was
working, and he said presently--
'After I was struck, I hated my body. I'd--I'd like to commit my
spirit to God--but not my body!'
Then again--very faintly--
'It was only your body, Aubrey--not your soul. Poor old Aubrey!'
Then he dozed off again, with intervals of pain.
At eight o'clock Pamela came in--a vision of girlish beauty in spite
of watching and tears, in her white dressing-gown, the masses of her
hair loosely tied.
She sat down by him, and the nurse allowed her to give him milk and
brandy. Paralysis in the lower limbs was increasing, but the brain
was clear, and the suffering less.
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