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. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. .
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