The sea had risen, but noiselessly, creeping up and up towards her, no line of white marking the edge of its slothful oncoming.
Damaris stood up, pulling her white jersey--the surface of it already furred with moisture--low over her hips.

For she felt shivery, and the air was thick and chill to breathe causing a tightness in her throat.
"The glory has departed, very much departed, so I had best make haste to depart also," she told herself; but told herself gallantly, smiling at her own strange plight in a spirit of adventure, discovering in it the excitement of novel experience.
She picked her way over the shingle and black sea litter of high-water mark, and started to run along the narrow strip between it and the advancing tide.

To run would circulate her blood, warm her through and keep her gallant humour up; still she had to own she found this heavy going, for her feet were numb and the sand seemed to pluck at and weigh them down.

Her run slackened to a walk.

Then she ventured a yard or two out into the shallow water, hoping there to meet with firmer foothold; but here it proved altogether too cold.