She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. Put on that new dress—the one that's all white. 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 now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard. “Annabel;” he moaned. " "Take it back yourself," retorted Jack, sullenly.
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