A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. She could feel teenage girls from all corners of the room tensing, preparing to shriek. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. At least, I hope so for his sake as well as my own," he added, mentally.
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