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. Then he paused. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. He had not had time to aim the pistol.
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