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. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. “No,” said her brother, conclusively, “it’s not for a parent to go on persuading a child. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand.
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