" "I promise to ask no more. You're luck. Perhaps I deceived you about it. 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. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce.
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