It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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