She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. “Oh, it is okay. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. Jack had well-nigh fallen too. ‘That I do not yet know.
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