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 cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. " "Be silent dog," cried Jonathan.
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