previous idea, that she flew at me. She flew differently from before; she dashed at me in short, sudden stabs of flight, sharply shifting direction as I avoided her.
There is character in flight, as there is in every human action; every pilot has a style of his own, corresponding to his character; and her style and character, in those few seconds she had been above the clouds, completely had changed. She had been flying swiftly but smoothly with long, graceful sweeps through the sky. Now she darted in short, ugly, sudden strikes at me to send me down as she had sent down Pete half an hour ago; and as she had dropped Selby and Kent. No longer did I question that. Hot blood beat in the back of my head. I knew, as I met her, I must manoeuver for my life and for Pete's. For she, if she could, would send us down.
