There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. " "Oh, it's a part of the game," said McClintock. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. Her tone was icy. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson.
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