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. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. She seemed to have no idea whatever of the emotional states that were becoming to her age and position. This last operation was so fatiguing, that for a short time he was obliged to pause to recover the use of his fingers.
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