“The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. As Jack conjectured, no one was there, and, though a lamp was burning on a stand, they decided upon proceeding without it. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. She rose and attacked Lucy, kicking her with the grafted leg that was too big for her body.
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