He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. From then on he was Ruth's dog. 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. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales.
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