"Do you remember the lake?" she said,
in an abrupt voice, under the pressure of an emotion which caught her
heart, made the muscles of her throat stiff, and contracted her
lips in a spasm as she said "lake." For she was a child, throwing
bread to the ducks, between her parents, and at the same time a grown
woman coming to her parents who stood by the lake, holding her life
in her arms which, as she neared them, grew larger and larger in her
arms, until it became a whole life, a complete life, which she put
down by them and said, "This is what I have made of it! This!" And
what had she made of it? What, indeed? sitting there sewing this
morning with Peter.
She looked at Peter Walsh; her look, passing through all that time and that emotion, reached him doubtfully; settled on him tearfully; and rose and fluttered away, as a bird touches a branch and rises and flutters away. Quite simply she wiped her eyes.