She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Not alone with her, that’s sure. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend.
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