He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. ‘I have the means to compel you. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness. ‘You are not at all stupid. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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