But that possibility had been anticipated. 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. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. “I’m not gentle. I’m glad I did. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh.
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