’ He gave the gaping Pottiswick a shove, passing him on to his junior, who was waiting patiently by the kitchen door. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. ‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors. I made the pies. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. And I want you for myself—for my wife. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart.
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