She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. The fact is I was so glad to see you again that it never occurred to me that a little discretion might be advisable. Wild never was the associate of thieves. 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. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again.
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