He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. ‘Comment? What do you say?’ Gerald looked down into her face, and found himself touched by the uncertainty he saw there. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. We'll have him on his way before many days.
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