She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. "You can't go to sea with a book of rules.
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