She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. This last operation was so fatiguing, that for a short time he was obliged to pause to recover the use of his fingers. “For me,” Manning went on, “this isn’t final. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. Was it ruined?’ ‘But yes, it was entirely ruined. I like you very much, I haven’t known you enough to love you, no matter how worthy you are of love. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow.
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