Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. It grew clear to her that throughout all her wild raid for independence she had done nothing for anybody, and many people had done things for her. 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. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street.
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