Passion
surged to the top of his mind--rage for his loss, indignation that the
unutterably fair thing before them had been blotted out of the world while
he was far away, without power to protect her. For a few moments only was
the man beyond his own self-control, but in that brief time he spoke; and
his listeners enjoyed a sensation of a nature outside their widest
experiences.
"Oh, Christ Jesus! 'tis Joan--my awn lil Joan, as I left her, as I seed her
alive!"
He had reached the rail separating the pictures from the public. Here he
stood and spoke again, now conscious that there were people round about
him.
"She'm dead--dead an' buried--my Joan--killed by the devil as drawed her
theer in that picksher. As large as life; an' yet she'm under ground wi' a
brawken heart. An' me, new-comed off the sea, hears of it fust thing."
"It's 'Joe's Ship' he means," whispered somebody, and Noy heard him.
"Iss fay, so 'tis, an' I be Joe--I talkin' to 'e; an' she'm shadin' her
eyes theer to see my vessel a-sailin' away to furrin paarts! 'Tis a story
that's true, an' the God-blasted limb what drawed this knawed I was gone to
the ends o' the airth outward bound."
A man from the turnstile came up here and inquired what was the matter. His
voice and tone of authority brought the sailor back to the position he
occupied; he restrained himself, therefore, and spoke no more. Already Noy
feared that his passion might have raised suspicions, and now, turning and
picking up his catalogue, he made hasty departure before those present had
opportunity to take much further notice of him.
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