As he fell, he caught at the projecting masonry. 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. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore.
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