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There was the priest, a fine stout man with a long black beard and hair falling below his shoulders, clothed in silk of gold and purple, waving a censer, monotoning the prayers in a high Russian tenor, with one eye on the choir of sanitars, one eye on the candles blown by the wind, the breeze meanwhile playing irreverent jests on his splendid skirts of gold.
Rushing in from that watery world was a gray shape narrow, low-decked, with slight upperworks and a single stack. "A chaser!" cried Torry, finding his voice and growing excited. "She's aiming right this way," added Frenchy excitedly. Phil Morgan had his glass out again, and his lips unpuckered and the tune he had been monotoning died. "What do you make of her, Phil?" whispered Al Torrance.
Both windows were open, a cool breeze was blowing through, and a bright paper pasted on the wall gave a cheerful impression. One corner was shut off by a screen of cheap cheesecloth. Sitting bolt upright on a low bench, and leaning against the partition, was a very aged woman, staring fixedly ahead out of blind eyes, and ceaselessly monotoning what was meant for a hymn.
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