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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. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. The contact is disturbing; and we prefer going around the fact to facing it. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 26-09-2024 17:11:44