"Not marble, eh?" asked Kirby, touching it.

One of the lower overseers stopped.

"Korl, Sir."

"Who did it?"

"Can't say. Some of the hands; chipped it out in off-hours."

"Chipped to some purpose, I should say. What a flesh-tint the
stuff has! Do you see, Mitchell?"

"I see."

He had stepped aside where the light fell boldest on the figure,
looking at it in silence. There was not one line of beauty or
grace in it: a nude woman's form, muscular, grown coarse with
labor, the powerful limbs instinct with some one poignant
longing. One idea: there it was in the tense, rigid muscles,
the clutching hands, the wild, eager face, like that of a
starving wolf's. Kirby and Doctor May walked around it,
critical, curious. Mitchell stood aloof, silent. The figure
touched him strangely.

"Not badly done," said Doctor May, "Where did the fellow learn
that sweep of the muscles in the arm and hand? Look at them!
They are groping,do you see?--clutching: the peculiar action of
a man dying of thirst."