She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. ” Her hand fell back into her lap. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. First the passage to be negotiated. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. “I am going to ignore it. Sometimes at sea a skipper will order his men to trim, batten down the hatches, and clear the deck of all litter. The light would betray us. Then she examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by her side. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. She was the High Priestess.
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