Don't be frightened of her. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. 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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