Smith was puckering
his eyes at, was the sight of his daughter clinging round Captain
Anthony's neck--a sight not in itself improper, but which had the power
to move young Powell with a bashfully profound emotion. It was different
from his emotion while spying at the revelations of the skylight, but in
this case too he felt the discomfort, if not the guilt, of an unseen
beholder. Experience was being piled up on his young shoulders. Mrs.
Anthony's hair hung back in a dark mass like the hair of a drowned woman.
She looked as if she would let go and sink to the floor if the captain
were to withhold his sustaining arm. But the captain obviously had no
such intention. Standing firm and still he gazed with sombre eyes at Mr.
Smith. For a time the low convulsive sobbing of Mr. Smith's daughter was
the only sound to trouble the silence. The strength of Anthony's clasp
pressing Flora to his breast could not be doubted even at that distance,
and suddenly, awakening to his opportunity, he began to partly support
her, partly carry her in the direction of her cabin.
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