He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. 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. She was quite unconcerned. Honestly, I never did. “As things are at present,” she said, “it is true. Rummage, my boy, do. ’ ‘Not dead, miss.
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