It would not be possible otherwise to live in daily contact with this level-eyed, lovely girl without loving her. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. Tell me about your island. " "Is the poor lady alive?" asked Mrs. " "I don't wonder at it," rejoined Gay. She obeyed, extending her arm. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. “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.
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