“You decline to help us in any way, then,” he said. 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. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. But Sheppard was not to be silenced. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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