Nobody seemed to have spoken for an age.Cam was tired of looking at the sea. Little bitsof black cork had floated past; the fish were deadin the bottom of the boat. Still her father read,and James looked at him and she looked at him,and they vowed that they would fight tyranny tothe death, and he went on reading quite un-conscious of what they thought. It was thus thathe escaped, she thought. Yes, with his greatforehead and his great nose, holding his littlemottled book firmly in front of him, he escaped.You might try to lay hands on him, but then likea bird, he spread his wings, he floated off to settleout of your reach somewhere far away on somedesolate stump. She gazed at the immenseexpanse of the sea. The island had grown sosmall that it scarcely looked like a leaf any longer.It looked like the top of a rock which some bigwave [∧]biggerthantherestwould cover. Yet in its frailty were all thosepaths, those terraces, those fruit treesattics—all thoseinnumerable things. But as, just before sleep,things simplify themselves so that only one thingof all the myriad details that were crowding in[%]one’s mind just now has power to assert itself, so,she felt, looking drowsily at the island, all thatwas fading and disappearing, and nothing wasleft but a pale blue censer swinging rhythmicallythis way and that across her mind. It was a315
Resize Images  

Select Pane

Berg Materials

View Pane