Eh bien, why did he not repeat it? What was she to say? ‘Prudence,’ she began hesitantly, pronouncing the name in the French way, ‘has said that she will help me to—to marry an Englishman. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. 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. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him. Anna was married. His feet would have the firm texture of his hands.
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