And, continually too, she seemed to see a man's face looking
steadily over the sea to her, as he stood upright for a moment and
rested from his toil. She was very fond of the boy - but the face
was not his!
CHAPTER XXXI
A special train from Southampton had just steamed into Waterloo
with the passengers from the Royal Mail steamer Ophir. Little
groups of sunburnt men were greeting old friends upon the platform,
surrounded by piles of luggage, canvas trunks and steamer chairs.
The demand for hansoms was brisk, cab after cab heavily loaded was
rolling out of the yard. There were grizzled men and men of fair
complexion, men in white helmets and puggarees, and men in silk
hats. All sorts were represented there, from the successful diamond
digger who was spasmodically embracing a lady in black jet of
distinctly Jewish proclivities, to a sporting lord who had been
killing lions. For a few minutes the platforms were given over
altogether to a sort of pleasurable confusion, a vivid scene, full
of colour and human interest. Then the people thinned away, and,
very nearly last of all, a wizened-looking, grey-headed man,
carrying a black bag and a parcel, left the platform with hesitating
footsteps and turned towards the bridge. He was followed almost
immediately by Hiram Da Souza, who, curiously enough, seemed to have
been on the platform when the train came in and to have been much
interested in this shabby, lonely old man, who carried himself like
a waif stranded in an unknown land.
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