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It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. A fever of shame ran through her being. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. The actual danger was lost sight of in these wild apprehensions; and many timorous beings were scared beyond reason's verge by the excess of their fears. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees.
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