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. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known. ‘You’re right. ‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out.
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