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. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward. " "I hear," said Sir Rowland, moodily. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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