The world was turned inside
out for Amy Wilberforce. She seldom spoke of his fate. But she was
always talking about the sea. She tried to drown herself, once or
twice. Then, gradually, she put on a new character altogether and
relapsed into queer ancestral traits, stripping off, like so many
worthless rags, the layers of laboriously acquired civilization. The
refined and bashful girl became brusque, supercilious, equivocal. When
sympathizing friends said that they had also lost lovers, she laughed
and told them to look for new ones. There were better fish in the sea,
etc., etc.
Soon she found herself abandoned, in spite of a full banking account.
People had dropped her, right and left.
The years went by.
Calmly, without misgivings and without fervour, she took to the bottle.
Something drew her to Nepenthe--dim Mediterranean memories. Arrived
there, she used to engulf three pints of Martell and Hennessey, one
after the other, and then "wash them out"--such was her phraseology--with
a magnum of Perrier Jouet; a proceeding which, while it heightened her
complexion and gave a sparkle to her poor flustered eye, was not
conducive to the preservation of equilibrium in the lower limbs.
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