Nothing else.

Not a thing.
And she knew it, at last, definitely.

This boy was too different, too much the other girl's--curse her for having all the luck.
For an instant, for one final desperate instant, she was urged to try again, to fling aside control and restraint and with her trembling body pressed close and her eager arms clasped about his neck, pour out her love and make a passionate stammering plea for something,--just something to put into her memory, her empty loveless memory,--but suddenly, like the gleam of a lamp in a tunnel, her pride lit up, the little streak of pride which had taken her unprofaned through all her sordid life, and she sat up, choked back her sobs, and dried her face with the skirt of her bathing dress.
"Don't mind me," she said.

"It's the night or something.

It got on my nerves, I suppose, like--like the throb of an organ.