Courtlaw sat with folded arms. 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. “Ann Veronica,” he said. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. "We work together no more.
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