It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. 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. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door.
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