"A sail?" said McClintock. If he was asleep, then she much regretted that she must wake him up. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. The storm burst upon them in its fury. Heaven alone knows why.
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