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 because they were vague to her. Joconda had always been there—why should she go away to earth or sky?

It was an April day; at this season the sea had no vapour and the shore no miasma; there was enough breeze to curl the little waves and send the foam in ripples; the boats were out and the low pale beach was alive with life, as the women shook and tossed the seaweed, and raked up the crystals of the salt, in the morning light.

'If I had only a boat!' she said with a sigh.

It seemed to her the one supreme glory of life—a boat.

A boat altogether one's own, to go out with in wild weather when all others were afraid; to lie in, all still and alone, on tranquil waters, gazing down into the blue depths where the coral branches were, and the starry flowers of the sea, and the gemlike eyes of the fishes; to steer, all by oneself, through tossing roaring breakers, through wind and tempest, under inky skies and beetling rocks, with the fierce hurricane in front and the thundering waters behind; a boat all one's own; that was the one triumph of life.