” He rowed a stroke and watched the swirl of water from his oar broaden and die away. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. ” She looked down on him thoughtfully, and he let his admiration of her free young poise show in his face. I will take her back. .
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