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Updated: May 15, 2025
In a semicircle sweeping around the group of singers, sophomores and stray juniors and many a wandering alumna in a flower-decked hat had gathered to listen. In a pause between the songs. Robbie surveyed them gravely, unrecognizing any of the older guests until presently one face stood out vaguely familiar in the clear twilight.
His skin looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick strong hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding. "Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to cure him, and you had better get to work at once." Then his face grew troubled as he asked Benson: "How long has he been like that?"
On the head of conscience, Garrison did not touch. He smothered it. All that he forced himself to sense was that he was "living like a white man for once"; loving as he never thought he could love. The reverse, unsightly side of the picture he would not so much as glance at. Time enough when he was again flung out on that merciless, unrecognizing world he had come to loathe; loathe and dread.
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