“A teacher, too—her friend.” There was no such—
The doctor shook his head. Shame on those bunglers—
Butcherers of girls—who with their knotted
Grass roots and their needles—natural thorns—
Had poisoned the sweet blood, the delicate place.
Where were they, vagrants, now? Could any law
Catch up with their coarse hands, and cleanse the world
Of meddlers on the march? For they were somewhere
Still, the doctor knew; and looked at Bruce
Bent dumbly over Dora. In good time