That there gatekeeper would’ve called them out again. It’s no good. 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. Half an hour afterwards the body of Jack was carefully examined. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. Now the sense of beauty was spreading to a multitude of hitherto unsuspected aspects of the world about her. ‘C’est ridicule.
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