Far out in the bay a cluster of almost motionless fishing
boats hovered like a flock of white birds on the tranquil sea. How
beautiful, how beautiful. Not to have died before this . . . to have
been allowed to see, breathe, feel this. . . . She stared, her lips
parted. Happy? Poor, ordinary, everyday word. But what could one
say, how could one describe it? It was as though she could hardly stay
inside herself, it was as though she were too small to hold so much of
joy, it was as though she were washed through with light. And how
astonishing to feel this sheer bliss, for here she was, not doing and
not going to do a single unselfish thing, not going to do a thing she
didn't want to do. According to everybody she had ever some across she
ought at least to have twinges. She had not one twinge. Something was
wrong somewhere. Wonderful that at home she should have been so good,
so terribly good, and merely felt tormented. Twinges of every sort had
there been her portion; aches, hurts, discouragements, and she the
whole time being steadily unselfish. Now she had taken off all her
goodness and left it behind her like a heap in rain-sodden clothes, and
she only felt joy. She was naked of goodness, and was rejoicing in
being naked. She was stripped, and exulting.
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