“She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. 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. Once more he begged; but as Ruth only repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward the jungle.
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