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. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. Are you doing okay in that shirt? You seem uncomfortable. " "Loves!" echoed Winifred, slightly colouring. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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