His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. We'll get this chap on his feet if only to learn what the trouble is. When he recovered his mental faculties, he would lie there, neutral; they could save him or let him die, as they pleased; and the doctor knew that he would wear himself out forcing his own will to live into this neutrality. “He’d better treat you right this time or I’ll pulverize him, you hear?” Lucy gave in to the hug.
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