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Updated: May 1, 2025
The dead men were laid out in a row, on their backs; greyish-white, sallow-white faces upturned; bodies straight and stiff on a thin litter of straw. Pale grey light hovered, filtered through dust. It came from some clearer place of glass beyond that might have been a carpenter's shop, partitioned off. She couldn't see what was going on there.
This is our secretary, Miss Valentina Gilchrist; Miss Ethel Farmer; Miss Winifred Burstall " Dorothy greeted in turn Mrs. Rosalind went on. "Miss Maud Blackadder " Miss Blackadder's curt bow accused Rosalind of wasting time in meaningless formalities. "Miss " Rosalind was at a loss. The other girl, the youngest of the eight, came forward, holding out a slender, sallow-white hand.
And as she looked at him the beauty that slept in her dulled eyes and in her sallow-white face and in her thin body awoke and became alive. It was not dangerous yet; not ready yet to tell the secret held back in its long, subtle, serious, and slender lines. Desmond's sensuality was woven with so fine a web that you would have said it belonged less to her body than to her spirit and her mind.
She went on scooping out the hole for it, slowly and deliberately, with her trowel, and patting the earth about it with wilful hands. There was a little smudge of grey earth above the crinkles in her soft, sallow-white forehead. "You wait," she said. She smiled like a child pleased with itself for taking its own way. Mary waited. She thought: "Three hours ago I was angry with her.
There would be blood; she knew there would be blood; but she didn't see it; she saw white, very white bandages, and greyish white, sallow-white faces that had no features that she knew. She hadn't really thought so very much about the war; there had been too many other things to think about.
She sat on the floor, on the orange and blue cushions, in silence and in patience, embracing her knees with her long, slender, sallow-white arms, while Nicky stamped up and down her studio and talked to her, like a monomaniac, about his Moving Fortress.
He staggered as he moved, and his face was sallow-white and drawn and glistening. When Charlotte took the shafts from him they were slippery with his sweat. "Is he hurt?" she whispered. "Very badly hurt," said Mrs. Rankin. "John, I mean." Mrs. Rankin snorted. "You'd better ask him." John was slouching round to the front of the car, anxious to get out of the sight and sound of her.
Dorothy saw a long, slender, sallow-white face, between sleek bands of black hair; black eyes, dulled as if by a subtle film, like breath on a black looking-glass; a beautiful slender mouth, pressed tight, holding back the secret of its sensual charm. Dorothy thought she had seen her before, but she couldn't remember where.
Cheyne, in the boudoir stateroom, where the French maid, sallow-white with fear, clung to the silver door-handle, only moaned a little and begged her husband to bid them "hurry." And so they dropped the dry sands and moon-struck rocks of Arizona behind them, and grilled on till the crash of the couplings and the wheeze of the brake-hose told them they were at Coolidge by the Continental Divide.
Her heart hurt him with its thumping. And through all his painful pity he knew that her skin was smooth and sweet like a sallow-white rose-leaf. And Desmond knew that he knew it. His mouth slid with an exquisite slipperiness over the long, polished bands of her black hair; and he thought that he loved her. Desmond knew that he thought it. And still she waited.
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