The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. The doctor reached over and laid his hand upon Spurlock's heart. 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.
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