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 changed in six months, grown sadder, I think. Oh, Anthony, Anthony, why couldn't you have loved me as I could have loved you? Or at least let me love you as I might have done. My dear Anthony...English people...Lady Maude does wear the ugliest clothes. Imagine her looking at me through her lorgnette and saying "quite ladylike for a clark, fawncy now," and those dreadful horsey daughters of hers. Perhaps I'm really a bit seasick and that's why I'm so depressed. I must take some of Mrs. Andrews's "Travellers' Elixir." The food is so wretched and greasy I hope it doesn't affect my skin.' She went to the hook where her towel was swaying delicately, got her hand mirror, and suspiciously examined the clear skin. Fog rolling in and the distant sound of a fog horn. The coast of Labrador blotted out and the sea oily and tireless, breathing and alive.

'I wish I could really be sick like that plump Mrs. Pontifex, although it was so hard for her to get out from that wall seat in the dining-room. Oh, I can smell them frying fish again. They must want to make us sick—we eat less and save them money. I'll lie down and count. Heavens, I am sick! I'm positively congealing around the mouth. Well, if I'm going to be...if I'm going to be...One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...I wonder if poetry would be better? It takes up your mind more. "Oh—gift—of—God—oh—perfect—day—whereon—shall—no—man—work—but—play—whereon—it—is—enough—for—me—not—to—to"...I've forgotten the rest. What a tiny little basin for