“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. Ann Veronica intervened a little in the novelist discussion with a defence of Esmond and a denial that the Egoist was obscure, and when she spoke every one else stopped talking and listened. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. 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. There are boats on the lake and shady depths and wildernesses of pine-wood. She could not help herself.
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