"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. The note-passer lagged behind with her. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. "You must make a bold push. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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