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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. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. Fast asleep, he is. "Set your prisoner free!" returned Wood. Lucy stared at the girl for a long ten seconds, and then looked away. “No.
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