He struggled fiercely to free himself, straining her to his
breast. There were still movements in the car after it had overturned.
It rocked and settled; for some time small articles continued to fall.
He drew the face of the unconscious girl more closely into his bosom to
protect it. As he did so he was aware that his arm was hurt. A burning,
biting pain singled itself out from all the aches of blows and
contusions. He seemed to remember that a long time ago, some hours
nearer the beginning of this catastrophe which had lasted but a moment,
he had felt something rip and tear the flesh; but he had been so
absorbed in the attempt to shield Berenice that he had not heeded. Now
the anguish was so great that it seemed impossible to endure it. He set
his teeth together, determined not to cry out lest she should hear him
and think that he lacked courage. Then it seemed to him that he was
swooning. He struggled against the feeling; and for what seemed to him
an interminable time he wavered between consciousness and
insensibility. It was either growing darker or he was losing the power
to see. He could not distinguish clearly any longer that human hand,
smeared with blood, sticking ludicrously in the air from amid a pile of
bags, coats, and all sorts of things thrown together just where the
position of his head constrained him to look.
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