We dragged him, and he bumped grotesquely. We had him under the
wall, near the two women, and the blood welled out and dripped in a
spreading pool at the women's feet.
"Now," said Bohun, "we've got to run for it."
"Do you know," said I, as though I were making a sudden discovery, "I
don't think I can." I leaned back against the wall and looked at the
pool of blood near the kiosk where the man had been.
"Oh, but you've got to," said Bohun, who seemed to feel no fear. "We
can't stay here all night."
"No, I know," I answered. "But the trouble is--I'm not myself." And I
was not. That _was_ the trouble. I was not John Durward at all. Some
stranger was here with a new heart, poor shrivelled limbs, an enormous
nose, a hot mouth with no eyes at all. This stranger had usurped my
clothes and he refused to move. He was tied to the wall and he would not
obey me.
Bohun looked at me. "I say, Durward, come on, it's only a step. We must
get to the Astoria."
But the picture of the Astoria did not stir me. I should have seen Nina
and Vera waiting there, and that should have at once determined me. So
it would have been had I been myself.
Pages:
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327