When I told her that there were no available nurses this side of Hong-Kong, she offered her services at once, and broke her journey. I have always managed to survive, haven’t I?” She was eager to stop talking about her parents. So I ran away, blindly, knowing nothing of the world outside. 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. Worse than any man. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites.
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