She’d considered them damned lucky to have her even in baggy pants with grease on them. She’d never have referred to her present existence as an exile; and she’d certainly never have thought of buying some frivolous and expensive lingerie to remind her, in secret, of the gracious life she’d left behind forever. Nor would she have considered holding her tongue about anything for timid and sensible reasons of self-protection. Back then she’d been playing the part of Captain Harriet Robinson to the hilt and enjoying it immensely; but now, I could see, the enjoyment had faded and regret and caution had taken its place. I could look at her clearly at last and know that she was lost. She was a lovely lady and she was breaking and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to help her. This rather primitive and, in many ways, humbling life—a charter boat captain, male or female, has to take a lot of guff from a lot of slobs—was wearing her down, not to mention the fact that despite our best efforts she was still legally a fugitive with the ultimate horror of prison still hanging over her.
