She told us that it was a disguise. 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 my own reasons for disliking this job. She had eaten them. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. And now, a fair exchange, Sir. But it was hopelessly hard to put. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare.
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