A curious silence ensued. My Mom and Dad were always 184 at work. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. Annabel laughed a little uneasily. 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. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment.
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