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'll be outside the hotel at nine-thirty. He waited. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go.
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