"Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. 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 pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. This is the first act.
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