The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. Ann Veronica surveyed his sloping back for a moment, and then drew her microscope toward her. You won’t have a man’s lips near you, but you’ll eat out of his hand fast enough. 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.
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