Selfishness. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. And he departed, just as Wood, who had become alarmed by Thames's long absence, made his appearance with a blunderbuss in his hand. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. She expanded that. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. Of course there were goats.
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