But my lunacy took the form of light-headedness with a strange,
almost persistent, sense of exaltation. I kept my strength so much
better than they that almost unconsciously they left most of the
trimming and steering in my hands. And I sat and steered as a god,
in a world blank of all but miserable happenings. I looked on Santa,
and she was the woman I loved but should never enjoy. I looked on
Farrell: and he was _here_, brought here by _me_. What worse woe
could possibly lie in store for him than this agony over which I
presided it was impossible to tell and hard indeed to imagine. But I
did not want him to die. On the contrary, it was for _him_ that I
searched the horizon, that a ship might rescue us and he might live.
I would see to the rest!
"They say that living with an enemy in a confinement such as ours,
makes you hate him worse and worse. . . . It wasn't so with me.
My hate, by this time, was set and annealed, so to speak; quite cold,
and almost judicial. I had no more jealousy than Jove. The air
that, to the others, quivered so damnably, so insufferably around the
boat under a sky without shade, swam around me like incense.
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