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. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. "Bravo!" shouted Blueskin. “I am off to-night,” he said. I am sure I never enjoyed so much popularity in my life. She delighted in frustrating him.
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