The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. "A bad business this, Van," observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of the head. ‘I don’t want that girl running her head into any more danger. 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. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her.
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