Beside it a nurse sat silent, and upon it feebly tossed the racked body of him whom Barrett had called Jerry the Teller.
The head was a shapeless bundle, so swathed it was with bandages and cloths, and what part of the face was visible was discolored and pigmented with drugs.

Stretched under the white sheet the man looked immensely tall--as Horner saw with vague misgiving--and he lay in an odd, inhuman fashion, as though he had been all broken to pieces.
His attempts to move were constantly soothed by the nurse, and he as constantly renewed such attempts; and one hand, though torn and bandaged, was not to be restrained from a wandering, restless movement which Meredith felt to be pathetic.

He had entered the room with a flare of hate for the thug whom he had come to see die, and who had struck down the old friend whose nearness he had never known until it was too late.

But at first sight of the broken figure he felt all animosity fall away from him; only awe remained, and a growing, traitorous pity as he watched the long, white fingers of the Teller "pick at the coverlet." The man was muttering rapid fragments of words, and syllables.
"Somehow I feel a sense of wrong," Meredith whispered to Gay.

"I feel as if I had done the fellow to death myself, as if it were all out of gear.
I know, now, how Henry felt over the great Guisard.