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. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. "Yes," answered the girl. “She has never 96 once contacted me. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. Cloud back of your hat!" He opened his eyes again. " "He has done too much already," answered the widow.
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