Excerpt: ... out on to the shingle. There he sat upon a warm boulder, and twisted to look at his arm. The skin was grazed, not very badly, merely a ragged scarlet patch no bigger than a carnation petal. The bruise, however, was painful, especially when, a minute or two later, he bent his arm. 'No, ' said he pitiably to himself, 'it is impossible it should have hurt me. I suppose I was careless.' Nevertheless, the aspect of the morning changed. He sat on the boulder looking out on the sea. The azure sky and the sea laughed on, holding a bright conversation one with another. The two headlands of the tiny bay gossiped across the street of water. All the boulders and pebbles of the sea-shore played together. 'Surely, ' said Siegmund, 'they take no notice of me; they do not care a jot or a tittle for me. I am a fool to think myself one with them.' He contrasted this with the kindness of the morning as he had stood on the cliffs. 'I was mistaken, ' he said. 'It was an illusion.' He looked wistfully out again. Like neighbours leaning from opposite windows of an overhanging street, the headlands were occupied one with another. White rocks strayed out to sea, followed closely by other white rocks. Everything was busy, interested, occupied with its own pursuit and with its own comrades. Siegmund alone was without pursuit or comrade. 'They will all go on the same; they will be just as gay. Even Helena, after a while, will laugh and take interest in others. What do I matter?' Siegmund thought of the futility of death: We are not long for music and laughter, Love and desire and hate; I think we have no portion in them after We pass the gate. 'Why should I be turned out of the game?' he asked himself, rebelling. He frowned, and answered: 'Oh, Lord!-the old argument!' But the thought of his own expunging from the picture was very bitter. 'Like the puff from the steamer's funnel, I should be gone.' He looked at himself, at his limbs and...