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. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. "He never let me keep a dog or a cat about the house. Then Manning flopped back in his chair and dropped his chin like a man shot. It's my way when I'm ruffled. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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