"A survivor?" he questioned rapidly, and a nod of the
head answering him, he demanded:
"Your name."
The answer given, he started to lead her toward that section
of the pier where her friends would be waiting.
When she stepped from the gangplank there was quiet
on the pier. The answers of the woman could almost be
heard by those fifty feet away, but as she staggered, rather
than walked, toward the waiting throng outside the fence, a
low wailing sound arose from the crowd.
"Dorothy, Dorothy!" cried a man from the number. He
broke through the double line of customs inspectors as though
it was composed of wooden toys and caught the woman to
his breast. She opened her lips inarticulately, weakly raised
her arms and would have pitched forward upon her face had
she not been supported. Her fair head fell weakly to one
side as the man picked her up in his arms, and, with tears
streaming down his face, stalked down the long avenue of
the pier and down the long stairway to a waiting taxicab.
The wailing of the crowd--its cadences, wild and weird--
grew steadily louder and louder till they culminated in a
mighty shriek, which swept the whole big pier as though at
the direction of some master hand.
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