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. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. . Sailors would leave them at the trader's. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John.
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