“Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. "Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave. 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. “Hey sis!” He cried drunkenly.
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