But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. 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. Tell me how are you amusing yourself?” Anna laughed. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. I hope that James will not be long with that whisky and Apollinaris.
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