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. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. ‘What would you? The nuns they would not believe me, and so it was not possible for me to stay. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. It's too hard.
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