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She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. 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. Let's get to Hong-Kong, James, and hit the high spots while there is time.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 21-09-2024 03:59:55
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