The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. I’m too young 117 for this to sound right. 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.
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