The salt gale blew in at Betty Flanders's bedroom window, and the widow lady, raising herself slightly on her elbow, sighed like one who realizes, but would fain ward off a little longer--oh, a little longer!--the oppression of eternity.
But to return to Jacob and Sandra.
They had vanished.

There was the Acropolis; but had they reached it?
The columns and the Temple remain; the emotion of the living breaks fresh on them year after year; and of that what remains?
As for reaching the Acropolis who shall say that we ever do it, or that when Jacob woke next morning he found anything hard and durable to keep for ever?
Still, he went with them to Constantinople.
Sandra Wentworth Williams certainly woke to find a copy of Donne's poems upon her dressing-table.

And the book would be stood on the shelf in the English country house where Sally Duggan's Life of Father Damien in verse would join it one of these days.

There were ten or twelve little volumes already.

Strolling in at dusk, Sandra would open the books and her eyes would brighten (but not at the print), and subsiding into the arm-chair she would suck back again the soul of the moment; or, for sometimes she was restless, would pull out book after book and swing across the whole space of her life like an acrobat from bar to bar.