Brent stood up with a tightening of the mouth and limbs.
“Come here.”
The dog sneaked out from behind the table and went and lay down by the stove.
Brent removed the chair and the table. He found Manon standing beside him, and together they looked down at this mountain of a man who lay stretched along the wall. Dusk had come; the room was filling with it, and a little darkness covered the mask of Bibi’s mutilated face. He moved a leg, stirred slightly, and seemed to become conscious of physical pain.
Paul and Manon looked at each other.
“What’s to be done?” her eyes asked his.
Brent was grim. He stood biting the stem of his pipe, a man who had not forgotten and who would never forget. Things might have turned out so differently. He had no pity for the man down there.
“Don’t touch him,” he said; “keep away. He’s foul.”
She caught her breath.
“I couldn’t touch him. But must he stay here?”