THE LIGHTHOUSEfly-leaf, she knew, he had written that he had spentfifteen francs on dinner; the wine had been so much;he had given so much to the waiter; all was addedup neatly at the bottom of the page. But whatmight be written in the book which had rounded itsedges off in his pocket, she did not know. Whathe thought they none of them knew. But he wasabsorbed in it, so that when he looked up, as he didnow for an instant, it was not to see anything; itwas to pin down some thought more exactly. Thatdone, his mind flew back again and he plunged intohis reading. He read, she thought, as if he wereguiding something, or wheedling a large flock ofsheep, or pushing his way up and up a single narrowpath; and sometimes he went fast and straight,and broke his way through the bramble, and some-times it seemed a branch struck at him, a brambleblinded him, but he was not going to let himselfbe beaten by that; on he went, tossing over pageafter page. And she went on telling herself a storyabout escaping from a sinking ship, for she wassafe, while he sat there; safe, as she felt herselfwhen she crept in from the garden, and took a bookdown, and the old gentleman, lowering the papersuddenly, said something very brief over the top ofit about the character of Napoleon.

She gazed back over the sea, at the island. But283
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