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. "That's well," replied Wild, entering the house, and fastening the door. ” She leaned forward for another kiss, which he responded to. After all, this could never be the black sheep. He had chosen his time well.
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