“Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you. Fortescue, with a bow. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. 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. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute.
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