He looked up and saw Stephen: his face was now perfectly grey, glistening with sweat; it was barely human, but somewhere about it there was a look of surly triumph. Jack’s eye moved down to Stephen’s chest, ploughed open from side to side, deep, deep; and white bone bare . . . Then M’Alister’s back hid the wound as he set to work – a competent back, expressing ease and a share in the triumph. Competent activity, short technical remarks; and there was Stephen, his chest swatched in a white bandage, sponged, relaxed, leaning back with his eyes half-closed. ‘You took the time, M’Alister?’ he
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