“Come on down to supper. Satan’s not angry.”
“Who the”—sniff—“cares whether’es angry or not? You lea’ me alone!”
“But what are you crying about?”
“Ain’t cryin’!”
“Well, what are you lying on the deck for?”
“’Cause I choose.”
“Come on down and help to clear the things away.”
“Clear them yourself!”
He bent down and tried to take her arm. She shook him off, rose suddenly like a released spring, ran to the side where the dinghy was moored, and got over the rail.
He looked over. She was in the boat unfastening the painter.