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. If only to say goodbye. At a little distance from the party, sat a tall, sinister-looking personage, with harsh inflexible features, a gaunt but muscular frame, and large bony hands. There was little fighting spirit here. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. “Are you in the Service?” She asked him. "'The Man Who Could Not Go Home. . Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside.
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