Explore "Red Pepper Burns" by Grece S. Richmond on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
R. P. Burns sat at his desk in the inner office, laboriously inscribing a letter with his left hand. It did not get on well. The handwriting in the four lines he had succeeded in fixing upon paper bore not the slightest resemblance to his usual style; instead, it looked like the chirography of a five-year-old attempting for the first time to copy from some older person's script.
He held up the sheet and gazed at it in disgust. Then he glanced resentfully at his sling-supported right arm, especially at the fingers which protruded from the bandages in unaccustomed limp whiteness. Then he shook his left fist at it. "You'll do some work the minute you come out of those splints," he said. "You'll work your passage back to fitness quicker than an arm ever did before, you pale-faced shirk!"