"It isn't easy, is it," she went on addressing her speech to whatever, at the mention of her daughter's name, hung in the air between them, "to stand by and see other people's great moments hover over them.

One would like so to lend a hand.

And one is sure of nothing so much as that if they are really to _be_ big, one mustn't." "If you feel that," Peter snatched at encouragement, "that it is really the big thing for her--what I'm sure you can't help knowing what I mean--what I hope." "What _I_ feel----?
After all, it's _her_ feeling, my dear Mr.
Weatheral, that we have to take into account.

It wouldn't be fair for me to attempt to answer to you for that!" "And of course if I can't _make_ her feel...." He did not trust himself to a conclusion.
They found, however, when the road issued on the coast opposite the great bursting bulks of spray, that Eunice's desertion and the extenuation of it to which they had lent themselves, had put them out of the mood for the high wind and warring surf of the Reef.

Accordingly they turned aside at Peter's suggestion to have tea at a little country inn farther back in the hills, where the pound of the sea was reduced to a soft, organ-booming bass to which the shrill note of the needles countered in perfect tune.