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. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. His title has descended to Rowland: his estates to Aliva.
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