Anna came back into the sitting-room with a little sigh of relief. “Mid-thirties. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. "That would be certain destruction. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Look! Is that some one coming out?” The front door of the flats stood open, and through it a woman, slim and veiled, passed on to the pavement and turned with swift footsteps in the opposite direction. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath. These two elderly ladies would call her stark mad. In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. 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. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. She took his hand in hers.
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