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. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. ‘Keep watch, Jack! If Captain Roding fails to keep the man out of the house, run upstairs and warn me quickly. We want to come to the station if this happens, okay? For your own good. She pulled him towards the bed. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited.
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