He
felt it. Liked by that haggard, restless man who threw at him
disconnected phrases to which his answers were, "Yes, sir," "No, sir,"
"Oh, certainly," "I suppose so, sir,"--and might have been clearly
anything else for all the other cared.
It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered in himself an already
old-established liking for Captain Anthony. He also felt sorry for him
without being able to discover the origins of that sympathy of which he
had become so suddenly aware.
Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as though he had a hinged
back, was speaking to his daughter.
She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she believed in--in
hell. In eternal punishment?
His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool was inaudible on
the other side of the deck. Poor Flora, taken very much unawares, made
an inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the
direction of the pacing Anthony who was not looking her way. It was no
use glancing in that direction. Of young Powell, leaning against the
mizzen-mast and facing his captain she could only see the shoulder and
part of a blue serge back.
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