"Speak plainly. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. 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. ” Her elation teetered in mid-air for a second, then began to flutter down around her like a badly-built house of cards. A conviction that her sister’s words were true had from the first possessed her. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. " Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds.
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