He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. " "One word before I go," urged Blueskin. 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. "Drink this, then," roared Blueskin.
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