Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. “She has been to my flat before. She fought the inclination for a while, then surrendered. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley. 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. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. Does HE know I keep you?. ” “You have her face and figure,” he muttered.
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