Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. 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. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project. “I believe that he would bore me.
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