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Maggot. Strike the gag, Blueskin. 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. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. If she could have held it in, perhaps the Virgin Mary would have sent her a miracle as reward for her strength. But now Ann Veronica knew what was the matter with her. Lucy had snuck in the back door by the kitchen and Sheila was ready for her, standing between the stove 124 and the refrigerator.
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