This concatenation had formed it, or that concatenation; the surrounding phenomena varied, but essentially it was always the same, like a dream place.

The question was, would he turn his boat, or raft, or whatever was beneath him, or his own stroke as swimmer, and escape from this glassy place whose currents were yet but tendrils?
He could do it; it was the Valley of Decision....

But so often, in all those lives whose bitter and sweet were distilled into this one, he had not done it.

It had grown much easier not to do it.

Sometimes it had been illusory love, sometimes ambition, sometimes towering pride and self-seeking, sometimes mere indolent unreadiness, dreamy self-will.