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. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. “Monsieur admires the poster?” As a rule Sir John treated such advances with cold silence. . You can have no shecrets from me.
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