What was his name? Foster, Faucett--no, it was Fancett. An
American, evidently. "The doctor is coming," he told Savina gently.
"Daniel felt that he had better see you. From Camag?ey. A good man. I
want to get you out of here at once, and he will give us something."
Waves of rebellion passed over him, an anger at his impotence, at the
arbitrary removal of Savina from the sphere of his help. His coat was
off, his collar unbuttoned, and he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt,
wet with sweat and the bathing of her head.
To Lee, Savina appeared sunken; her cheeks, certainly, were hollower;
there was a shadow, like the dust over the floor, in each one; she had
ceased to open her eyes but they had retreated. A dreadful twenty-four,
thirty, hours; how brutally hard it had been on her. She hadn't
complained; he had been more upset, impatient, than Savina. What a
splendid companion! But that, he irritably felt, was a cold word of
description for her. What a force! She was that, magnificently, above
everything else. Beside her, other people--the rest of life--were flat,
tepid.
There was a thin far vibration which grew into a flowing throb; Lee
identified it as the rail car. Perhaps the doctor had been absent.
However, Daniel would know what to do. The footfalls approaching the
door were multiplied: it was his brother and an elderly wasted man with
a vermilion sprig of geranium in the lapel of a white coat.
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