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The life of the woods was like sleep to him; the air was marrowy, stimulating; he could feel himself growing quiet and stronger in it. A moment later he drew his breath deeper. "She is coming!" A tall, erect girl, bareheaded, came noiselessly down between the gray trunks of the trees, her feet sinking at each step into the dead, ash-colored moss.
"Yes, Sir," said the gold headlights, "I think he's gone to see about it." He had looked her slowly over again from the blondine hair and the ash-colored V of unclean skin and waistless slop of slattern wrapper to clock work stockings and high heeled slippers. "A ha' ma doubts he's sprintin' fr' the back door this minute!
That evening Tom Tripe turned up, and Yasmini came down-stairs to talk with him, Trotters remaining outside the window with his ash-colored hair on end and a succession of volcanic growls rumbling between flashed teeth. "What's the matter with the dog, that he won't come in?" asked Tess. "Nothing, ma'arm He's just encouraging himself. He stays here tonight." "Trotters does? Why?"
Saturday evening, Feb. 7th, condition worse, pulse 112, temp. 103, tongue furred ash-colored, countenance typhoid in expression, loss of appetite, no abdominal symptoms, mind clear. Sunday, Feb 8th. pulse 120, temp. 105.4, tongue same as yesterday, had a chill last night. The skin over the sinus is inflamed somewhat more than it was yesterday.
His mottled skin glistened in the morning light, but he did not move, and his eyes were tight shut, as were those of the "green devil" after I had seen him feed. I looked backward, across the court yard. The door of the big bamboo cage beneath the trees was open. I turned to the room again and looked once more. I knew now why the night guard's face was ash-colored, and why he could not speak.
Between them, on the edge of his mistress's skirt, sat the dog with the ash-colored coat, in a posture of disquiet and uncertainty; it was evident that he was not accustomed to visit that room.
Into this drawing-room rushed a strange pair; a maiden of fifteen, in a bright dress, golden-haired, rosy, and tall, bent low; she held by the forepaws a little ash-colored dog, and with him went waltzing around the furniture of the room, humming as she moved the fashionable: La, la, la! La, la, la!
When the Federal troops had passed by that morning, Scofield felt some one lift him gently, where he had fallen. It was Bone. "Don't yer try ter stan', Mars' Joe," he said. "I kin tote yer like a fedder. Lor' bress yer, dis is nuffin'. We'll hev yer roun' 'n no time," his face turning ash-colored as he talked, seeing how dark the stain was on the old man's waistcoat.
He looked up; the night had come on foggy, damp; the golden mists had vanished, and the sky lay dull and ash-colored. He wandered again aimlessly down the street, idly wondering what had become of the cloud-sea of crimson and scarlet. The trial-day of this man's life was over, and he had lost the victory. What followed was mere drifting circumstance, a quicker walking over the path, that was all.
They worked slowly to the crest of the sand roll, zig-zagging to break the steepness. An ash-colored shadow skulked along the tracks of the outlaw trail. The little mule gave a squealing hind kick. The shadow looked back: it was a coyote, scenting the tracks of the drovers' lame horse. It went loping over the sand a blurr of gray. "Curious thing that, Wayland! Notice the antics of the mule?
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