"That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. 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. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. I’m not sure if Janine cared. I don’t classify.
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