From the deck of the ship the great
city appeared a crouched and cowardly figure, a sedentary miser.
Leaning over the rail, side by side, Helen said, "Won't you be cold?"
Rachel replied, "No. . . . How beautiful!" she added a moment later.
Very little was visible--a few masts, a shadow of land here, a line of
brilliant windows there. They tried to make head against the wind.
"It blows--it blows!" gasped Rachel, the words rammed down her throat.
Struggling by her side, Helen was suddenly overcome by the spirit of
movement, and pushed along with her skirts wrapping themselves round
her knees, and both arms to her hair. But slowly the intoxication of
movement died down, and the wind became rough and chilly. They looked
through a chink in the blind and saw that long cigars were being smoked
in the dining-room; they saw Mr. Ambrose throw himself violently against
the back of his chair, while Mr. Pepper crinkled his cheeks as though
they had been cut in wood. The ghost of a roar of laughter came out to
them, and was drowned at once in the wind. In the dry yellow-lighted
room Mr. Pepper and Mr. Ambrose were oblivious of all tumult; they were
in Cambridge, and it was probably about the year 1875.
"They're old friends," said Helen, smiling at the sight. "Now, is there
a room for us to sit in?"
Rachel opened a door.
"It's more like a landing than a room," she said.
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