His body had been maimed many times. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. O'Higgins wandered into this street and that, studying the signs and resenting the Britisher's wariness in using too much tin and paint. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. Those were dreams. Life waits for us.
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