A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. ‘In that case, he is probably already dead, and you have nothing to worry about. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the grim resolution of what he had set out to do: that comradeship was all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky and sail.
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