She felt a storm of emotion surging up within her. ’ She sighed. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. 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. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. Prudence shook her head.
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