Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. Independently of other risks, and of the chance of breaking his neck in the descent, he was aware that to reach the leads he should have to break open six of the strongest doors of the prison. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. She is curiously altered in many ways. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. 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.
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