He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. Beauty has bloomed and faded. "But there's nothing more to see in Canton. ” Lord, he was right! But softly now.
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