“There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. When he recovered his mental faculties, he would lie there, neutral; they could save him or let him die, as they pleased; and the doctor knew that he would wear himself out forcing his own will to live into this neutrality. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh.
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