He carries his death like a fetus.
* * * * * * It is the day when we change our clothes.

Some of the invalids manage it by themselves; and, sitting up in bed, they perform signaling operations with arms and white linen.

Others are helped by the nurse.
On their bare flesh I catch sight of scars and cavities, and parts stitched and patched, of a different shade.

There is even a case of amputation (and bronchitis) who reveals a new and rosy stump, like a new-born infant.

The negro does not move while they strip his thin, insect-like trunk; and then, bleached once more, he begins again to rock his head, looking boundlessly for the sun and for Africa.