the remarkI realize that the remark was too obvious to make rejoinder necessary. 'Grab hold of something and hang on," the red-faced man said to me. All his bluster had gone, and he seemed to have caught the contagion of preternatural calm. "And listen to the women scream," he said grimly—almost bitterly, I thought, as though he had been through the experience before The vessels came together before I could follow his advice. We must have been struck squarely amidships, for I saw nothing, the strange steamboat having passed beyond my line of vision. The Martinez Dr Dre Headphones heeled over, sharply, and there was a crashing and rending of timber. I was thrown flat on the wet deck, and before I could scramble to my feet I heard the scream of the women. This it was, I am certain,—the most indescribable of blood-curdling sounds,—that threw me into a panic I remembered the life-preservers stored in the cabin, but was met at the door and swept backward by a wild rush of men and women. What happened in the next few minutes I do not recollect, though I have a clear remembrance of pulling down life-preservers from the overhead racks, while the red-laced man fastened them about the bodies of an hysterical group of women. This memory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture 1 have seen. It is a picture, and I can see it now,—the jagged edges of the liole in the fide of the cabin, through which the grey fog swirled and Beats By Dr Dre eddied; the empty upholstered seats, littered with all the evidences of sudden flight, such as paclu^es. hand satchels, umbrellas, and wraps; the stout gentleman who had been reading my essay, encased in cork and canvas, the magazine still in his hand, and asking me with monotonous insistence if 1 thought there was any danger; the red-faced man, stumping gallantly around on his artificial legs and buckling life-preservers on all corners; and finally, the screaming bedlam of women. This it was. the screaming Beats By Dre of the women, that most tried my nerves. It must have tried, too, the nerves of the red-faced man, for I have another picture which will never fade from my mind. The stout gentleman is stuffing the magazine into his overcoat pocket and looking on curiously. A angled mass of women, with drawn, while races and open mouths, is shrieking like a chorus of lost souls; and the red-faced man, his lace now purplish with wrath, and with arms extended overhead as in the act of hurling thunderbolts, is ihouting. 'Shut up! Oh. shut up!" Sou and Latm, D. H. Lawrence's most widely read novel, has achieved a reputation for being at one and the same time a fictionalised account of his own personal history and a classic depiction of the mother-son relation¬ship comparable in status with that of Sophocles' play Oedipus Tjrannui.