Explore "John Dene of Toronto a Comedy of Whitehall" by Herbert Jenkins on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
James Blake stood in the bows of the _Toronto_ gazing down at the long, cigar-shaped object that lay like a huge grey cocoon reposing in her bowels. The morrow would see the _Destroyer_ floated out to carry her three hundred odd feet of menace into the blues and greys of the ocean.
Blake was a man upon whom silence had descended as a blight; heavy of build, slow of thought, ponderous of movement, he absorbed all and apparently gave out nothing. His most acute emotion he expressed by fingering the right-hand side of his ragged beard, whilst his eyes seemed to smoulder as his thoughts slowly took shape.