But misery she felt; a blank of misery through which her reviving soul--
like the shoot of a plant trodden into mire--pushed feebly towards the
sunlight that coaxed her eyes to open. Something it sought there . . .
a face . . . yes, a face. . . .

--Yes, of course, a face; lifted high above other faces that were
hateful, hostile, mocking her misery--God knew why; a strong face, not
very pitiful--but so strong!--and yet it must be pitiful too, for it
condescended to help. It was moving down, bending, to help. . . .

--What had become of it? . . . Ah, now (shame at length reawakening) she
remembered! She was hiding from him. He was strong, he was kind, but
above all he must not see her shame. Let the earth cover her and hide
it! . . . and either the merciful earth had opened or a merciful
darkness had descended. She remembered sinking into it--sinking--her
hands held aloft, as by ropes. Then the ropes had parted. . . .
She had fallen, plumb. . . .

She was re-emerging now; and either shame lay far below, a cast-off weed
in the depths, or shame had driven out shame as fire drives out fire.
Her back was burning; her tongue was parched; her eyes were seared as
they half opened upon the crowd. The grinning faces--the mouths pulled
awry, mocking a sorrow they did not understand--these were meaningless
to her. She did not, in any real sense, behold them. Her misery was a
sea about her, and in the trough of it she looked up, seeking one face.

--And why not? It had shone far above her as a god's; but she had been
sucked down as deep again, and there is an extreme of degradation may
meet even a god's altitude on equal terms. Stark mortal, stark god--its