\" He leaned at a steeper pitch. White assured her. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. 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. ” Mike said, with unsubtle jealousy.
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