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. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. But it was hopelessly hard to put. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off.
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