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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. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. The man looked hard at him. She laid her hand upon his arm. It was not a long prayer.
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