Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. Winter came at the manor. His hair was thick and brown and his skin was fair. 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. Before the first month was gone, McClintock admitted that the boy was a find.
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