streamed from her pen she felt them going by, felt them looking at her. "—writing—" she heard them murmur to each other respectfully. "—writing." They think I have more than my share, she told herself. They think I am young, beautiful, rich, brilliant, beloved—happy. They envy me.
If they only knew!
"To sink slowly, slowly, down to the trees of white and rose-red coral massed with bubbles, to the sprays of pearl, to drift and turn until my bones were white and delicate, covered with small rose-pink shells and silver bubbles, drifting and turning forever in that still depth of peace."
A group of skirts and trousers surrounded her chair. People! When all she wanted was to be alone. "Peace" she wrote again, and rose from the depths of the sea.
"Pardon us for interrupting"
"What is probably a masterpiece in the making!"
