You may fall into the hands of your enemy. ‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Tombs were desecrated, beautiful statues toppled, and the colorful shops that she had been enchanted by along the canal had been closed or burned. She tucked the mission Bible under her arm, and crooking a finger at Rollo, went forth to the west beach where the sou'-west surge piled up muddily, burdened with broken spars, crates, boxes, and weeds.
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