She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. ‘You would like? And do you imagine that I will tell you?’ ‘Won’t you?’ ‘No, a thousand times. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. He was still thickly clad in jeans. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. It was not possible.
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