For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. . . . If they are not obvious errors, they are left as in the original. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. And later they paddled in a boat above the mysterious deeps of the See, and peered down into the green-blues and the blue-greens together. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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