She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. 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. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. " "A promise to my mother?" said Winifred, unsuspiciously.
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