Even after he had deposited me--very skilfully and gently--in my wheel-chair in the hall, I hated the lingering sense of his touch.

He owed his whisky and soda to the most elementary instinct of hospitality.

Besides, he was off the next day, back to the trenches and the hell of battle, and I had to bid him good-bye and God-speed.

But when he went, I felt glad, very glad, as though relieved of some dreadful presence.

My old distrust and dislike returned increased a thousandfold.
It was only when he got my frail body in his arms, which I realized were twice as strong as my good Marigold's, that I felt the ghastly and irrational revulsion.