She twisted her fingers tightly. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “And me. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. Others are smart but fall prey to emotional damage, the female lunar instinct of cunning that goes awry. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that.
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