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. “No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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