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. I wrenched this off, and in an envelope addressed to me in faded ink, I found the locket and the pearls. He was no match for Brendon. " "But Wild still lives," cried Wood.
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