"Shure 'tis back in the surgery again I am," he told himself, while his
lean, ugly face beamed with satisfaction.
No one who knew Michael Furness had ever suspected the regret by which
he was for ever haunted, regret at the loss of his profession. His
rollicking manner made it impossible to believe him capable of any
depth of feeling, and he had a trick of talking least about the things
for which he cared most. The failing that banned him from his work was
an inherited one. He suffered for the sins of his fathers, for the
indulgences of many generations of hard riding, hard living, reckless
hot-blooded Celts. He was too old to reform now, he would say.
Perhaps later on he would be "making his soul"; in the meantime he
drifted.
Emile, Maria and the boiling water all made their entree together. The
eyes of the former travelled first of all to the bed and then to the
heap of vegetation.
"_Qu 'est-ce que c'est que ca_?" he demanded. "She is better, eh?"
"No, she's worse," answered Michael. He seized upon the leaves and
began to bundle them into the steaming basin.
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