She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. 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. " "Mrs. Help! help!" But her cries were unheeded. Make no promises on a night where I have burdened you with such awful knowledge. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. But while there's life there's hope. She picked up the hand cannon. If only Gerald would come. "How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence.
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