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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. Do you know how late it is?” She nodded. I have yet another. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out.
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