Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. “I am sick of it. That is so awful. They are not your children, they never were. 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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