She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. 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. “You are absurd,” she declared. ‘Certainly no one will find it. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel.
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