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” “I don’t know who you are,” Ennison said quietly, “but you are a thundering liar. It was dry, as if she had powdered it. In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray. 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. I've always been more or less music-mad. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.
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