But having more salt than he could use during the
remainder of his days, did not tend toward an abatement of this war he
waged against nature's ultimate design. He himself would analyse that as
a species of stubbornness, an egotistic desire to see how good an
interference he could establish, but he gave body and brain and soul to
his meddling with a fire suspiciously like consecration.
They all knew that Dr. Parkman worked hard. Some few knew that he
overworked, and a very few knew why. Of the personal things of his own
life he never spoke, and though he was but fifty, his lined face and
deep-set eyes made him seem much closer to sixty.
The two men were an interesting contrast; Dr. Parkman was singularly,
conspicuously dark, while Karl Hubers was a true Teuton in colouring. Dr.
Parkman was a large man, and all of him seemed to count for force.
Something about him made people prefer not to get in his way. It was his
hands spoke for his work--superbly the surgeon's hands, that magical
union of power and skill, hands for the strongest grip and the lightest
touch, lithe, sure, relentless, fairly intuitive.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64