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. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. He was in front of one of the more imposing of the cafés chantants—opposite, illuminated with a whole row of lights, was the wonderful poster which had helped to make ‘Alcide’ famous. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts.
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