“Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. 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. Hawk and Buzzard. ‘You said she was beautiful. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage.
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