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. And she’s pluck to the backbone. ‘They cannot be worse than mine in English, monsieur. She charged boldly into the space of Miss Miniver’s rhetorical pause.
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