For that my father so stupide was in love with this Suzanne Valade, is it not?’ ‘Well, miss,’ temporised Mrs Ibstock, ‘we didn’t rightly know that then. You keep on coming truer, after you have seemed to come altogether true. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. 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 women, with your tricks of evasion, you’re a sex of swindlers. Wood, at the top of her voice. ’ ‘Don’t you dare. This too shall pass.
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