A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant.
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