Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. Bring me clothing, I beg of you. “There is no time for that. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. ” And while he talked and watched her as he talked, she answered, and behind her listening watched and thought about him. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target.
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