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. All right! I’m off. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. “I’ve gotta go. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer.
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