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. Have you ever voted, Mr. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges. ” Her voice trembled with suppressed passion. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. You care for me just a little, I know. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication.
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