She's Got Some Sort Of Notion In

She Turned Her Face Seaward To Gather In An Impression Of Space And Solitude, Which The Vast Expanse Of Water, Meeting And Melting With The Moonlit Sky, Conveyed To Her Excited Fancy. As She Swam She Seemed To Be Reaching Out For The Unlimited In Which To Lose Herself.

She Was Still Under The Spell Of Her Infatuation. She Had Tried To Forget Him, Realizing The Inutility Of Remembering. But The Thought Of Him Was Like An Obsession, Ever Pressing Itself Upon Her. It Was Not That She Dwelt Upon Details Of Their Acquaintance, Or Recalled In Any Special Or Peculiar Way His Personality; It Was His Being, His Existence, Which Dominated Her Thought, Fading Sometimes As If It Would Melt Into The Mist Of The Forgotten, Reviving Again With An Intensity Which Filled Her With An Incomprehensible Longing.

There Were Days When She Was Unhappy, She Did Not Know Why,--when It Did Not Seem Worthwhile To Be Glad Or Sorry, To Be Alive Or Dead; When Life Appeared To Her Like A Grotesque Pandemonium And Humanity Like Worms Struggling Blindly Toward Inevitable Annihilation.

There Are Some People Who Leave Impressions Not So Lasting As The Imprint Of An Oar Upon The Water.

The Artist Must Possess The Courageous Soul That Dares And Defies