"She gazed back over the sea, at the island. But the leaf was losing its sharpness. It was very small; it was very distant. The sea was more important now than the shore. Waves were all round them, tossing and sinking, with a log wallowing down one wave; a gull riding on another. About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk,
and she murmured, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone."
— Virginia Woolf, To The Light House
and she murmured, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone."
— Virginia Woolf, To The Light House
