Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. “He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue.
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