’ Melusine frowned, placing her hand on the letter lying on the table. 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. "At the Black Lion in our street," replied Jack, without hesitation.
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