Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. “We will see that he doesn’t follow you. His manner, however, was as stern and haughty as ever, and his glances retained their accustomed fire.
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