"And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. Gay," rejoined Jack. " The stranger said nothing, but hastily brushed away a tear. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture.
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