“Number 13, please, cabman. “Just at present my mind simply won’t take hold of this at all. ” “Ay,” he repeated, looking away from her. Spurling, drily. 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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