'I never said it was not,' said Andreino.
Musa worked on steadily at her task, carrying load after load of marramgrass, cudweed, and seahay, into the house, which stood at the edge of the little mole of Santa Tarsilla between the quay and the beach.
When she had reached her last load, and Joconda, looking up from her own work at the sail, called out from the distance 'enough!' she stood a moment with her hands lightly resting on her hips and looked over the pale sands, the white stones, the blue waves.
Then she pursued her last task of carrying in the weed, as other women were doing also. The morning was young still; there was an opal-hued light on land, and sky and sea; the low, flat beach was wet with recent showers; the air was cool and fragrant; even the stagnant salt-pools and the dreary marsh lands took the sweet hues of the springtime and the morning.
Although she had taken in a good provision of the algæ and salt-water plants and stacked it in the mule's stable, it was still early. Joconda was now baking her black loaves of bread, and the house was full of grey smoke.
