Kneebone,—pray go!" implored Winifred. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder.
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