Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun.
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