His man was swaying before him as a sack of sawdust swings inert to the vibrating motion of speed.
His blows were falling short and fast.

No great force was behind them.
He had no time to give them force.

But they were bewildering--the stones of hail upon the naked eyes.

Morrison dropped slowly and slowly backwards, one staggering step at a time; his defenceless arms held feebly like broken straws before his face.

From nose to chin, from chin to neck, and from the neck in a spreading stream across his chest, the blood--black in that light--trickled like molten glue.
In his eyes, she could see that questioning glare, the stupid senseless gaze of a man drunk with exhaustion.