Later we will see.
We must manage the best we can. If I hurt you, Mr. Wynne, you must tell
me."
Berenice looked on, sick with the sight of the blood, while her
grandmother examined the wounded arm. Wynne shrank a little, but
Berenice noted that he bore the pain pluckily. The sleeve was cut to
the shoulder, and his arm laid bare. A jagged cut was revealed reaching
from the wrist to the elbow; a cut so ugly in appearance that the girl
went faint again.
"There, there, Miss Bee," old Mehitabel said, taking her by the
shoulder. "You've had enough of this sort of thing for one night.
You'll dream gray hairs all over your head if you don't get out."
But Berenice refused to give up her place. She stood beside Wynne while
her grandmother examined the arm, handing the things that were wanted;
fighting with the faintness that came over her in waves.
"No, Mehitabel," said she. "I'm made of better stuff than you think."
In her heart she had a half unconscious feeling that she had been
inclined to hold this man in contempt because of his priestly garb; and
that she owed him this reparation. She did not know what had occurred
in that overturned car; but she looked back to it as to a horror of
great darkness in which Wynne had risked his life for hers.
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