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“You see,” said Ann Veronica, staring before her at the window-sash, “that’s the form my question takes at the present time. The library was on the ground floor, Melusine recalled from the previous visit, for she had searched through a desk in a room filled with bookshelves of leatherbound volumes. She proceeded to lift the front end of the car five feet from the ground with one hand. 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.
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