CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. They had as many designations as grades. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. By this time, several of the terrified domestics appeared with lights. "Good bye!" cried Jack, as if taking leave of his mistresses, "to-morrow, at the same time. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops.
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