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To the north, immense quantities of stores clothing, provisions, material of every description were on fire, darkening the sky with rolling, inky clouds; an entire army corps with heavy artillery and baggage crossed the river enveloped in the pitchy, cinder-laden smoke from two bridges on fire.

Five leagues beyond are the mines of the "Inky River" Rio Tinto a name sufficiently expressive and appropriate, for it issues from the mountain-side impregnated with copper, and is consequently corrosive. The Moors seem to have followed the Romans in their workings on the north side of the hill.

But Bitherstone, born beneath some Bengal star of ill-omen, is extremely inky; and his Lexicon has got so dropsical from constant reference, that it won't shut, and yawns as if it really could not bear to be so bothered.

The night was one of dense, inky blackness, occasionally relieved by flashes of lightning. It was hardly a night on which a girl should be out. And yet one was out, scudding before the storm, with clenched teeth and wild eyes, wrapped head and shoulders in a great blanket shawl, and looking, as she sped along like a restless, dark ghost.

Anonymous assailants may be likened to the cuttle-fish, which employs the inky secretions it forms as a means of tormenting its enemy and baffling pursuit. I have been reading the poems of Mrs. Hemans, and exquisite they are. They affect me like sacred music, and never fail to excite religious sentiments.

Between shadowy mounds of loose earth flickered the light of a fire, small and distant, round which wavered the inky silhouettes of men, and beyond which dimly shone a yellow face or two, a yellow fist clutched full of boiled rice like a snowball. Beyond these, in turn, gleamed other little fires, where other coolies were squatting at their supper. "Rudie, look!"

The sky was inky and a few wandering flakes of the now rapidly advancing storm came whirling in, biting my cheeks and stinging my forehead. Once inside, I stopped short, possibly to listen again, possibly to assure myself as to what I had best do next. The silence was profound. Not a sound disturbed the great, empty building. My own footfall, as I stirred, seemed to wake extraordinary echoes.

A dark November afternoon wet, and windy, and wild. The New York streets were at their worst sloppy, slippery, and sodden; the sky lowering over those murky streets one uniform pall of inky gloom. A bad, desolate, blood-chilling November afternoon. And yet Mrs. Walraven's ball was to come off to-night, and it was rather hard upon Mrs.

And then he turned the conversation abruptly, which was his way when he intended what he had said to sink deeply into the heart of his listener. But just as he was leaving after tea he drew the heavy curtains back from one of the great windows. All was inky darkness, and the roaring of the sea with its breakers foaming beneath them, came up like the menacing voices of an angry crowd.

There was no use arguing and Adam Adams did not attempt it. Indeed, he was rather curious to see what the fellow would do next. Matlock Styles entered the old mill and then descended a flight of stone steps. Below was a sort of cellar, damp and musty. Crossing the cellar the Englishman opened an iron door in a brick wall and literally threw Adam Adams into the inky darkness beyond.