The Cockney snap was out of his voice. His words came like a drunkard's: he was slurring them, running them together, skipping hard consonants.
"I'll never be a man no more, I won't," he added with a dry sob.
The Parson gripped his hand.
A look of beastly rage darted into the other's eyes.
"Blast ye!" he screamed, and struck at the Parson's face with his elbow.
"I'm one—great wownd, you—." He spewed out a torrent of hideous names.
"And yet you must go for to wring my and!"
He lifted his foot to stamp it. His wounds twitched at him. He lowered it gingerly and with a groan.
"I ain't a man," he sobbed. "I'm one—great wownd."
"My poor chap," choked the Parson.
The other turned, body, legs, neck, and head moving all of a piece, and shuffled into the cottage on his heels.
The Parson followed.