“The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. I hope—I am sure that he did not see me.
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