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. Ann Veronica looked bright and a little elated, and she disregarded her father’s invitation to be seated. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. Immeasurable disgust possessed her.
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