Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. The vote is only the beginning, the necessary beginning. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. But from the first her rather old-fashioned conception of life had jarred with the suburban atmosphere, the High School spirit and the memories of the light and little Mrs. Wood. "For my part, I don't think you ever quite got over the accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves.
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