He staggered to his knees, coughing and sputtering, and the water dripped on her from his streaming clothes. She flung herself down, again, straining over the pit. Not a sound came up from it. “Austin! Austin! Quick! Another oar!” she shrieked. Stilling gave a cry. “My God! Was it Austin? What in hell--Another oar? No, no; untie the skiff, I tell you. But it’s no use. Nothing’s any use. I felt him lose hold as I came up.” ***** After that she was conscious of nothing till, hours later, as it appeared to her, she became dimly aware of her husband’s voice, high, hysterical and important, haranguing a group of scared lantern-struck faces that had sprung up mysteriously about them in the night. “Poor Austin! Poor Wrayford... terrible loss to me... mysterious dispensation. Yes, I do feel gratitude--miraculous escape--but I wish old Austin could have known that I was saved!” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Choice, by Edith Wharton