"To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. Presently he reached out and laid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders. Kneebone. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles.
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