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. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. " "What do you mean?" asked the female, in astonishment. "He would return my letters unopened or destroy them. ” “Such independence,” he answered quickly, “is a vice. She remained by the door until the walls of the city swallowed the bobbing lantern. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes. Things happen out this way. She wanted to turn him.
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