T0 THE L1GHTHOUsEquestion; at what point to make the first mark?One line placed on the canvas committed her toinnumerable risks, to frequent and irrevocabledecisions. All that in idea seemed simple becamein practice immediately complex; as the wavesshape themselves symmetrically from the clifftop, but to the swimmer among them are dividedby steep gulfs, and foaming crests. Still the riskmust be run; the mark made.

With a curious physical sensation, as if shewere urged forward and at the same time musthold herself back, she made her first quickdecisive stroke. The brush descended. ItHickered brown over the white canvas; it left arunning mark. A second time she did it——a thirdtime. And so pausing and so flickering, sheattained a dancing rhythmical movement, as ifthe pauses were one part of the rhythm and thestrokes another, and all were related; and so,lightly and swiftly pausing, striking, she scoredher canvas with brown running nervous lineswhich had no sooner settled there than theyenclosed (she felt it looming out at her) a space.Down in the hollow of one wave she saw the nextwave towering higher and higher above her.For what could be more formidable than thatspace? Here she was again, she thought, steppingback to look at it, drawn out of gossip, out of7-44

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