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But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. 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. ‘You think so? Well, if that’s so, I know where she gets her impudence, Prudence Sindlesham. The major will not call. Make haste!" Ruth hurried off to her own room. If you knew anything about Canton ware, you were, as like as not, sorely tempted to stuff a teacup into your pocket.
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