I thought of the thing which I had likened to a feather boa; and I looked at the swollen weals
made by clutching fingers upon the throat of Nayland Smith.
The days glided by; the weals
on my face changed colour and began to fade, while the cut on my head grew less painful.
Nan turned back her sleeve and looked at the red weals
now darkening into a bruise which his grasp had made on the white skin of her arm.