"We'll see," returned the thief-taker. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. I've seen many a clever cracksman, but never one like him. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. 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. “Ye Gods!” she said at last. This started a thought moving. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house.
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