Chapter 8

           Theydon’tfeelathingthere,Camthought,lookingattheshore,which,risingandfalling,becamesteadilymoredistantandmorepeaceful.Herhandcutatrailinthesea,ashermindmadethegreenswirlsandstreaksintopatternsand,numbedandshrouded,wanderedinimaginationinthatunderworldofwaterswherethepearlsstuckinclusterstowhitesprays,whereinthegreenlightachangecameoverone’sentiremindandone’sbodyshonehalftransparentenvelopedinagreencloak.

           Thentheeddyslackenedroundherhand.Therushofthewaterceased;theworldbecamefulloflittlecreakingandsqueakingsounds.Oneheardthewavesbreakingandflappingagainstthesideoftheboatasiftheywereanchoredinharbour.Everythingbecameveryclosetoone.Forthesail,uponwhichJameshadhiseyesfixeduntilithadbecometohimlikeapersonwhomheknew,saggedentirely;theretheycametoastop,flappingaboutwaitingforabreeze,inthehotsun,milesfromshore,milesfromtheLighthouse.Everythinginthewholeworldseemedtostandstill.TheLighthousebecameimmovable,andthelineofthedistantshorebecamefixed.Thesungrewhotterandeverybodyseemedtocomeveryclosetogetherandtofeeleachother’spresence,whichtheyhadalmostforgotten.Macalister’sfishinglinewentplumbdownintothesea.ButMr.Ramsaywentonreadingwithhislegscurledunderhim.

           Hewasreadingalittleshinybookwithcoversmottledlikeaplover’segg.Nowandagain,astheyhungaboutinthathorridcalm,heturnedapage.