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Jack Rangsley was a tall, big-boned, thin man, with something sinister in the
lines of his horseman's cloak, and something reckless in the way he set his
spurred heel on the ground. He was the son of an old Marsh squire. Old
Rangsley had ...
His head was knotted in a red, white-spotted handkerchief; his grizzled beard
was tangled; he wore a black and rusty cloak, ragged at the edges, and his feet
were often bare; at his side would lie his wooden right hand. As a rule, the place
Tomas Castro dropped his ragged cloak with a grandiose gesture. “By my hand!”
he added with difficulty. He was really very much alarmed. Carlos was gazing up
the hatch. I was ready to laugh at the idea of dying by Tomas Castro's hand ...
We must go quickly; up—up—” He waved his hand towards the scuttle. “But still,”
Castro said. He was reluctantly fitting his wooden hand upon the blue steel. He
sent a baleful yellow glare into my eyes, and stooped to pick up his ragged cloak.
... my heart was bursting my ribs. I lay on my back and managed to say, “Give me
air.” I thought I should die. Castro, draped in his cloak, stood over me, but Major
Cowper fell on his knees near my head, almost sobbing: “My papers! My papers!
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LibraryThing ReviewUser Review - ToddSherman - LibraryThing
“And on this ghostly sigh, on this breath, with the feeble click of beads in the nun’s hands, a silence fell upon the room, vast as the stillness of a world of unknown faiths, loves, beliefs, of ... Read full review