The mast was straight; the waves were regular; the lighthouse was upright; but the blot had spread.
"...

nothing for it but to leave," she read.
"Well, if Jacob doesn't want to play" (the shadow of Archer, her eldest son, fell across the notepaper and looked blue on the sand, and she felt chilly--it was the third of September already), "if Jacob doesn't want to play"-- what a horrid blot! It must be getting late.
"Where IS that tiresome little boy ?" she said.

"I don't see him.

Run and find him.

Tell him to come at once." "...