The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of this town. I ought to have gone long ago.
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