‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. But, after all, what does that matter? He is very much taken with me. 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. Taking the wind was her business in life.
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