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. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. "My worst fears are realized. It’s not fair to you. " "Accident or not," rejoined Sheppard; "you're no longer pall of mine.
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