A familiar figure was making his way towards them. It was among artistic people. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate.
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