Her hat was awry; her gloves miserable. No girlish pride in her
distraught face. No determination to overcome Fate. No consciousness of
ability to meet a bad situation. Just those sad eyes and those twitching
lips.
"Look here," Denry whispered, "you must come ashore for a second. I've
something I want to give you, and I've left it in the cab."
"But there's no time. The bell's..."
"Bosh!" he exclaimed gruffly, extinguishing her timid, childish voice.
"You won't go for at least a quarter of an hour. All that's only a dodge
to get people off in plenty of time. Come on, I tell you."
And in a sort of hysteria he seized her thin, long hand and dragged her
along the deck to another gangway, down whose steep slope they stumbled
together. The crowd of sightseers and handkerchief-wavers jostled them.
They could see nothing but heads and shoulders, and the great side of
the ship rising above. Denry turned her back on the ship.
"This way." He still held her hand.
He struggled to the cab-rank.
"Which one is it?" she asked.
"Any one. Never mind which. Jump in." And to the first driver whose eye
met his, he said: "Lime Street Station.
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