Smitten brutally on the point of the jaw, his head jerked back, he
reeled and fell against a chair, which went to the floor with a muffled
crash.
X
BUT AS A MUSTARD SEED...
Duchemin woke up in his bed, glare of sunlight in his eyes.
From the latter circumstance he reckoned, rather groggily, it must be
about the middle of the forenoon; for not till about that time did the
sun work round to the windows.
Still heavy with lees of slumber, his wits occupied themselves
sluggishly with questions concerning the enervation that oppressed him,
the reason for his oversleeping, why he had not been called. Then,
reminded that noon was the hour set for Eve's departure, fear lest she
get away without his bon voyage brought him sharply up in a sitting
position.
He groaned aloud and with both hands clutched temples that promised to
split with pain that crashed between them, stroke upon stroke, like
blows of a mighty hammer.
A neatly fastened bandage held in place, above one ear, a wad of cotton
once saturated with arnica, now dry. Duchemin removed these and with
gingerly fingers explored, discovering a noble swelling on the side of
his head, where the cotton had been placed.
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