I have forgotten to say that the bronze ended with his face.

His body, thanks to his Scandinavian stock, was fair as the fairest woman's.

I remember his putting his hand up to feel of the wound on his head, and my watching the biceps move like a living thing under its white sheath.

It was the biceps that had nearly crushed out my life once, that I had seen strike so many killing blows.
I could not take my eyes from him.

I stood motionless, a roll of antiseptic cotton in my hand unwinding and spilling itself down to the floor.
He noticed me, and I became conscious that I was staring at him.
"God made you well," I said.
"Did he ?" he answered.