And he sprang to his feet. And knowing that Donnegan had begun life as a cripple it was easy to appreciate certain things about his expression—a cold wistfulness, and his manner of reading the minds of men. Lord Nick was like a man in a dream. He dragged Donnegan back to the bunk and forced him to sit down with the weight of his arms. And he could not keep his hands from his younger brother. As though he were blind and had to use the sense of touch to reassure him.
"I heard lies. They said everybody was dead. I thought—"
"The fever killed them all, except me. Uncle Toby took me in. He was a devil. Helped me along, but I left him when I could. And—"
"Don't tell me any more. All that matters is that I have you at last, Garry. Heaven knows it's a horrible thing to be kithless and kinless, but I have you now! Ah, lad, but the old pain has left its mark on you. Poor Garry!"
Donnegan shuddered.
"I've forgotten it. Don't bring it back."
"I keep feeling that you should be in that chair."
"I know. But I'm not. I'm hard as nails, I tell you."
He leaped to his feet again.
"And not so small as you might think, Henry!"