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. “I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life. He, a Chinaman, troubling himself over Occidental ideas! With his hands in his sleeves, he proceeded on his way. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. But for me it doesn’t matter. “They all catch on,” she said.
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