She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. “Shhh.
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