She recalled the guilt, of thinking less of him only to be shaken out of it by the words of mourners, expressing sorrow, telling her of his rescues.  She was surprised by the condolences, then subsequent stories of salvation metered out by his hands.

So impressed was she in this that she endeavored to garner the same manner of reminiscence at her own end.  She longed for versions of deliverance granted by her pains.

And so firmly constructed was this fiction that she found comfort in acts that never were.   Contentment in mere figment deeds.

The moment of this confrontation… by the sea.  Alone to understand.