The bow swept into the onward current, it moved more
swiftly, and then sluggishly settled against the bottom. Painted on its
blistering white side was a name, "_Veronica_," and "Ten persons."
There was a slight movement at the rail, and a sharp unreasoning horror
gripped August Turnbull.
"Something in it," he muttered. He wanted to turn away, to run from the
beach; but a stronger curiosity dragged him forward. Not conscious of
stepping through shallow water he advanced.
A hunger-ravished dead face was turned to him from the bottom, a huddle
of bony joints, dried hands. There were others--all dead, starved. In a
red glimmer he saw the incredible travesty of a child, a lead-colored
woman, shriveled and ageless from agony.
He fell back with a choking cry, "Emmy!"
There was a dull uproar in his head, and then a violent shock at the
back of his brain. August Turnbull's body slid down into the tranquil
ripples that ran along the boat's side.
ROSEMARY ROSELLE
It would be better for my purpose if you could hear the little clear
arpeggios of an obsolete music box, the notes as sweet as barley sugar;
for then the mood of Rosemary Roselle might steal imperceptibly into
your heart. It is made of daguerreotypes blurring on their misted
silver; tenebrous lithographs--solemn facades of brick with classic
white lanterns lifted against the inky smoke of a burning city; the
pages of a lady's book, elegant engravings of hooped and gallooned
females; and the scent of crumbled flowers.
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