He rolled up the sailor's sleeves half-way to the shoulder.

The arms were white with somewhat of that weird semitranslucence that I had seen on Throckmartin's breast where a tendril of the Dweller had touched him; and his hands were of the same whiteness--like a baroque pearl.

Above the line of white, Marakinoff thrust the needle.
"He will need all his heart can do," he said to me.
Then he reached down into a belt about his waist and drew from it a small, flat flask of what seemed to be lead.

He opened it and let a few drops of its contents fall on each arm of the Norwegian.

The liquid sparkled and instantly began to spread over the skin much as oil or gasoline dropped on water does--only far more rapidly.