This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1899 edition. Excerpt: ...its passage--perhaps," Holcroft answered. "She was lying quite clear of it. I got a little brandy down just now--before you picked yourself up--and she opened her eyes for a moment." "Has she spoken?" "No. Only moaned when I lifted her. How are we to get her home? That arm of yours is clearly useless." Johnson ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1899 edition. Excerpt: ...its passage--perhaps," Holcroft answered. "She was lying quite clear of it. I got a little brandy down just now--before you picked yourself up--and she opened her eyes for a moment." "Has she spoken?" "No. Only moaned when I lifted her. How are we to get her home? That arm of yours is clearly useless." Johnson anathematised his arm. "We must get help from the village--from Brissago." "Then the sooner we get it the better. Slip into my place; I'll run on there." Johnson drew back. "No, no! best not move her more than needful. Besides, she might want the brandy again; and what could a one-handed man do in that case? No, you stop here with her, and /'ll make tracks for Brissago." He turned away; then all at once swung round again with, "Tell me the truth! You don't think?" "I don't think anything!" Holcroft responded impatiently. "Except that it's criminal to waste time here asking questions. Off with you, man, for Heaven's sake!" Without another word, Johnson, carrying his dislocated wrist in his left hand, plunged headforemost down the rough path. And Holcroft was left to his watch. A strange watch; but he had no leisure to realise its strangeness, or meditate on the singularity of the fate which had led him at this particular moment into the Brissago olivewoods. Fear possessed him wholly. Leaning over that still white face and inanimate body, he felt the breath of the King of Terrors cold upon his forehead. He wetted the pale lips afresh with brandy, evoking no sign of life beyond a faint moan, which seemed to warn him that at all costs he must avoid movement. And movement was the relief craved, with increasing importunity, by his cramped muscles. As...
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