Splash! That last wave was a trencherous beast—no!—treacherous beast.... Phew, ugh! Salt in the mouth. Salt in the eyes. And here was another, too soon!... Oh fight!
It was hard to see the Piccola Marina. Wait for the lift of the next wave.... She was going too much to the left, ever so much too much to the left....
One must exert oneself for Peter’s sake.
What was Arthur doing?
It seemed a long time now since she had got into the water, and the shore was still a long way off. There was nobody there at all that she could see.... Boats drawn high and dry. Plenty of boats. Extraordinary people these Italians—they let stonemasons take charge of boats. Extortionate stonemasons.... She was horribly tired. Not in good fettle.... She looked at the Faraglione over her shoulder. It was still disgustingly near and big. She had hardly swum a third of the way yet. Or else there was a current. Better not think of currents. She had to stick to it. Perhaps it was the worst third of the way she had done. But what infinite joy and relief it would be just to stop swimming and spread one’s arms and feet!
She had to stick to it for little Peter’s sake. For little Peter’s sake. Peter too young to be left....
Arthur? Best not to think about Arthur just yet. It had been silly to insist on the Arco Naturale....
What a burthen and bother dress was to a woman! What a leaden burthen!...
She must not think. She must not think. She must swim like a machine. Like a machine. One.... Two.... One.... Two.... Slow and even.
She fell asleep. For some moments she was fast asleep. She woke up with the water rising over her head and struck out again.