He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. At the sight of her he became rigid and a singularly bright shade of pink. The signal of distress was evidently understood. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live.
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