"Breathe at this phial," said Winifred. ‘It did not seem to me that it was so. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green.
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