“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. She thought me— filthy. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. 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.
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