Ann Veronica had been an ardent hockey player and had had a course of jiu-jitsu in the High School. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. 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. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile.
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