Paintings sold off the walls. 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. Hill lost a little of his truculency. The whole was then fired, and in a few minutes the room was a blaze. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. You will find it somewhere in that book. “I dare not,” she answered.
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