Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. 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. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction.
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