She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. ‘Now let’s have it. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. Is there?” “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face.
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