She was poor. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The panel in the bookcase. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. He flipped the television off. "No more, please! I am bewildered enough. The key's in the lock, on the inner side. This heroine ruled an island which (in the '80s) was rich with shell—pearl-shell; and she fought pearl thievers and marauding beachcombers, fought them with weapons and with woman's guile.
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