He thought of the empty island behind him and the vanished motorboat.
He wondered if the sea had pulled down Martin Kesserich and Mary Alice Pope. He wondered if only Hani and Hilda had sailed away.
He winced, remembering what he had done to Martin and Mary by his blundering infatuation. In his way, he told himself, he had been as bad as the two old women.
He thought of death, and of time, and of love that defies them.
He stepped limpingly into the Annie O. to set sail—and realized that philosophy is only for the unhappy.
Mary was asleep in the stern.