All three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. She told you —the truth. 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. She calmed herself, breathing deeply.
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