There was only one in all that company who sat perfectly still in
the silence which followed upon the story. That one was the boy, Harry
Feversham.
He sat with his hands now clenched upon his knees and leaning forward a
little across the table toward the surgeon, his cheeks white as paper,
his eyes burning, and burning with ferocity. He had the look of a
dangerous animal in the trap. His body was gathered, his muscles taut.
Sutch had a fear that the lad meant to leap across the table and strike
with all his strength in the savagery of despair. He had indeed reached
out a restraining hand when General Feversham's matter-of-fact voice
intervened, and the boy's attitude suddenly relaxed.
"Queer incomprehensible things happen. Here are two of them. You can
only say they are the truth and pray God you may forget 'em. But you
can't explain, for you can't understand."
Sutch was moved to lay his hand upon Harry's shoulder.
"Can you?" he asked, and regretted the question almost before it was
spoken. But it was spoken, and Harry's eyes turned swiftly toward Sutch,
and rested upon his face, not, however, with any betrayal of guilt, but
quietly, inscrutably. Nor did he answer the question, although it was
answered in a fashion by General Feversham.
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