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. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. The boy she had loved was gone. She struggled against it quite uselessly. ‘That’s wicked, that is. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. Wood. She is English! I am sure of that.
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