Archibald Rushford, tall, lean, the embodiment of energy, stood at the window, hands in pockets, and stared disgustedly out at the dreary vista of sand-dunes and bathing-machines, closed in the distance by a stretch of gray sea mounting toward a horizon scarcely discernible through the drifting mist which hung above the water. "Though why you wanted to come here at all," he continued, presumably addressing two young ladies in the room behind him, "or why you want to stay, now you _are_ here, passes my comprehension. One might as well be buried alive, and be done with it. The sensations, I should imagine, are about the same."…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.