As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. Go and prepare for our departure. 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. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London.
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