She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. " When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here and there by his own imagination, McClintock made a negative sign. Charvill’s fury was burning out. Wild is incapable of such baseness. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. She addressed him in a tone of puzzlement.
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