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 met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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This video was uploaded to bbdy.space on 10-06-2024 07:40:00
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