Now she was buying her ticket. Gannett turned his head a moment to look at
the clock: the boat was due in five minutes. He had time to jump into his
clothes and overtake her--
He made no attempt to move; an obscure reluctance restrained him. If any
thought emerged from the tumult of his sensations, it was that he must let
her go if she wished it. He had spoken last night of his rights: what were
they? At the last issue, he and she were two separate beings, not made one
by the miracle of common forbearances, duties, abnegations, but bound
together in a _noyade_ of passion that left them resisting yet clinging as
they went down.
After buying her ticket, Lydia had stood for a moment looking out across
the lake; then he saw her seat herself on one of the benches near the
landing. He and she, at that moment, were both listening for the same
sound: the whistle of the boat as it rounded the nearest promontory.
Gannett turned again to glance at the clock: the boat was due now.
Where would she go? What would her life be when she had left him? She had
no near relations and few friends. There was money enough ... but she
asked so much of life, in ways so complex and immaterial. He thought of
her as walking bare-footed through a stony waste. No one would understand
her--no one would pity her--and he, who did both, was powerless to come to
her aid....
He saw that she had risen from the bench and walked toward the edge of the
lake.
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