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. ‘To what do you go, mademoiselle? The life of a nun in a convent, in a country where nuns are unwelcome. Paris copies London. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset. Men usually do. This is a good piano.
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