"Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. That is I saw her. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Gosse were you born, and Gosse will you remain to your death. Once before—but that had been different. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. It took the relatives of the Vorsack family a few more days to file their own.
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