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It was the wild dream of an opium smoker, a vision of delirium. The head was like that of a fowl, the body that of a bloated lizard, the trailing tail was furnished with upward-turned spikes, and the curved back was edged with a high serrated fringe, which looked like a dozen cocks' wattles placed behind each other.
McKay's upward-turned face was a grim study. Beyond those limestone shouldering heights his terrible Calvary had begun a progress that had ended in the wreckage of mind and soul had it not been for Chance and Evelyn Erith.
"Yes, she is a very sweet woman, and I should think you could live very happily with her," said Maria, twisting her hair carefully. Maria had a beautiful neck showing above the lace of her underwaist. Lily looked at it. Her tears had ceased, and left not a trace on her smooth cheeks. The lace which Maria's upward-turned hair displayed had set her flexible mind into a new channel.
He spoke, not as one who wishes to convert others to his own point of view, but, rather, as though unconscious of their presence, he poured out the fullness of his meditations in self-communion. The upward-turned eyes were half closed.
"There never is any one in the mill, surely!" exclaimed Mary, as the sea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end, looking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned. The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire.
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