human
I have borne it as long as I can, she thought. Yet as she had said, she was not angry. She wondered, vaguely, listening to the dip of the oars, at this absence of anger. She had been able to talk about the bonfires, and she had thought the moon beautiful. No; she was not angry. Or if she were, then her anger was unlike all the other angers that had scourged and torn the surface of her life; they had been storms, all clamor and confusion and blinding flashes, with more or less indifference to resulting ruin. But this anger, which could not be recognized as anger, was a noiseless cataclysm in the very center of her being; a tidal wave, that was lifting and lifting, moving slowly, too full for sound, in the resistless advance of an absorbing purpose of ruin.
gpt
I am not angry, she said to herself;
human
Elizabeth! What is the matter? Shall I stop? Shall we go ashore? You are ill!
gpt
No; I'm not. Go on, please.
human
But there is something the matter!
gpt
Don't stop. We've gone ever so far down-stream, just in this minute.