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. Jack appealed to the new auditors, and again detailed his story, but with no better success than heretofore. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me.
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