Don't you hear how you've made it cry?" "Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. 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. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. Wood turned to look at him.
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