"Eleven months and three days of this!" I repeated to myself.
Instinctively my mind went back to all I had done, seen, and enjoyed in
these eleven months and three days. Certain individual incidents more
delightful than others stood out clear and distinct: that day under the
trees at Cookham, the Thames slipping past, the white-sailed clouds
above my tent of leaves; a morning at Dort, when Peter and I watched the
Dutch luggers anchor off the quay, and the big storm came up; a night
beyond San Giorgio, when Luigi steered the gondola in mid-air over a sea
of mirrored stars and beneath a million incandescent lamps.
I passed on to the next cage, Marny watching me but saying nothing. The
scout was in this one, the "type" in Marny's sketch. There were three of
them--tall, hickory-sapling sort of young fellows, with straight legs,
flat stomachs, and thin necks, like that of a race-horse. One had the
look of an eagle, with his beak-nose and deep-set, uncowed eyes. Another
wore his yellow hair long on his neck, Custer-fashion.
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