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. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. Gerald’s voice came back to her, saying that she could not hope to outwit “a man who means business”. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. “Look at me. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family. But I don’t wish to hear that abomination on her lips again. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now.
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