It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. I worshipped her and subdued myself. “That sounds interesting. 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’ve just seen him. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand.
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