. . . And then at the end of this
confused effect of struggle, this Chinese kinematograph film, one
last picture jerked into place and stopped and stood still, a white
wall in the sunshine come upon suddenly round a corner, a dirty
flagged passage and a stiff crumpled body that had for the first
time an inexpressive face. . . .
14
Benham sat at a table in the smoking-room of the Sherborough Hotel
at Johannesburg and told of these things. White watched him from an
armchair. And as he listened he noted again the intensification of
Benham's face, the darkness under his brows, the pallor of his skin,
the touch of red in his eyes. For there was still that red gleam in
Benham's eyes; it shone when he looked out of a darkness into a
light. And he sat forward with his arms folded under him, or moved
his long lean hand about over the things on the table.
"You see," he said, "this is a sort of horror in my mind. Things
like this stick in my mind. I am always seeing Prothero now, and it
will take years to get this scar off my memory again.
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