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Oxenham, John, 1852-1941

"A Maid of the Silver Sea"


Meagre living, starvation even, he would suffer rather than live more
amply at risk of Nance's life, but if the hope of ultimate escape was
taken from him then he might as well give in at once and have done with
it.
So he lay there, in the broken rocks of the ridge, and looked grimly on
life. And the sun rose in a red ball over France, and cleft a shining
track across the grey face of the waters, and drew up the mists and
thinned away the clouds, till the great plain of the sea and the great
dome above were all deep flawless blue, and he saw a thin white curl of
smoke rise from the miners' cottages on Sark.
He lay there listless, nerveless, careless of life almost, an Ishmael
with every man's hand against him--worse off than Ishmael, he thought,
since Ishmael had a desert in which to wander, and he was tied to this
bare rock.
But there was Nance! There was always Nance. And at thought of her, his
bruised soul found somewhat of comfort and courage once more.
He felt her quivering in his arms again as he pressed her close. He felt
again the willing surrender of her sweet wet face.


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