processes—and, by George, I believe we can!” He looked up suddenly at Justine. “With you to work with, I believe I could do anything. How you do back a man up! You think with your hands—with every individual finger!”
Justine turned her eyes away: she felt a shudder of repulsion steal over her tired body. It was not that she detected any note of personal admiration in his praise—he had commended her as the surgeon might commend a fine instrument fashioned for his use. But that she should be the instrument to serve such a purpose—that her skill, her promptness, her gift of divining and interpreting the will she worked with, should be at the service of this implacable scientific passion! Ah, no——she could be silent no longer.…
She looked up at Wyant, and their eyes met.
“Why do you do it?” she asked.
He stared, as if thinking that she referred to some special point in his treatment. “Do what?”
“It’s so useless … you all know she must die.”
“I know nothing of the kind … and even the others are not so sure today.” He began to go over it all again—repeating his arguments, developing new theories, trying to force into her reluctant mind his own faith in the possibility of success.
Justine sat resting her chin on her clasped hands, her
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