Cecilia and Robbie froze in the attitude of their struggle. Their eyes met, and what they saw in the biliousmélangeof green and orange was not shock, or guilt, but a form of challenge, or even triumph. She had the presence of mind to set the ruined vase back down on the step before letting herself confront the significance of the accident. It was irresistible,she knew, even delicious, for the graver it was, the worse it would be for Robbie. Her dead uncle, her father’s dear brother, the wasteful war, the treacherous crossing of the river, the preciousness beyond money, the heroism and good ness, all the years backed up behind the history of the vase reaching back to the genius of Hodoldt, and beyond him to the mastery of the arcanists who had re-invented porcelain.‘You idiot! Look what you’ve done.’He looked into the water, then he looked back at her, and simply shook his head as he raised a hand to cover his mouth....He stood with hands on his hips and stared as she climbed into the water in her underwear. Denying his help, any possibility of making amends, was his punishment. The unexpectedly freezing water that caused her to gasp was his punishment. She held her breath, and sank, leaving her hair fanned out across the surface. Drowning herself would be his punishment.When she emerged a few seconds later with a piece of pottery in each hand, he knew better than to offer to help her out of the water. The frail white nymph, from whom water cascaded far more successfully than it did from the beefy Thriton, carefully placed the pieces by the vase. She dressed quickly, turning her wet arms with difficulty through her silk sleeves, and tucking her unfastened blouse into the skirt.(Excerpted from Atonement by Ian McEwan, page 29-30)