She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. “Let us walk across the Park at least,” he said to Ann Veronica. John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. I dare say it will be chattered about for weeks. 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.
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