It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. You sent back my Christmas checks. Why can’t you let it be?’ Gerald grinned at him. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. “My wife. Men fled from their tottering habitations, and returned to them scared by greater dangers. And from then on we'll see them, port and starboard, to the end of the voyage.
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