He waved a cordial goodbye. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. 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. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. Plainly. David Courtlaw.
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