Mr. 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. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases.
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