Her father’s step quickened to a trot. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. So they fenced with smiles. “How dare you!” she panted, with her world screaming and grimacing insult at her. 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. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame.
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