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Updated: May 26, 2025
'Gang upstairs wi' ye. And he pointed to a door in the wall concealing a staircase to the upper storey. She sprang up, looked at the door and at him irresolutely, and then stayed where she was, gaunt, pale, fever-eyed, the wreck and ghost of her old self. The steps neared. There was a rough voice in the kitchen, a surprised exclamation, and her father had pushed past his brother into the room.
That is all that unloading cargo means to me; and I cannot imagine that it means any more to any of the sons or daughters of men who are not intimately concerned in a particular trade. . . . You must imagine, I say, the S.S. Vesta repeating this monotonous performance; Jaffery and Liosha and the little, black-bearded skipper, all clad in decent raiment, going ashore, and being entertained scraggily or copiously by German, French, Portuguese, English, fever-eyed commissioners, who took them on the tour du propriétaire, among the white wooden government buildings, the palm-covered huts of the natives, and shewed them the Mission Chapels and the new Custom Houses and the pigeon-like fowls and the little dirty naked nigger children, and the exiguity of their stock of glass and china, and the yearning of their souls for the fleshpots of the respective Egypts to which they belonged.
And he pointed to a door in the wall concealing a staircase to the upper story. She sprang up, looked at the door and at him irresolutely, and then stayed where she was, gaunt, pale, fever-eyed, the wreck and ghost of her old self. The steps neared. There was a rough voice in the kitchen, a surprised exclamation, and her father had pushed past his brother into the room.
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