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. “I hope that whatever your plans may be, you will give me the opportunity of seeing something of you now and then. ” “I don’t understand. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice.
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