She shot a sudden glance at him. ‘All right, Trodger. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. He turned. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. Using the shirt, she cleaned away the blood. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. "As like as life.
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