Are you prepared to do it?” Her hands clenched. 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. It seems he does not inherit the title. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. .
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