“Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. After all, this could never be the black sheep. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. 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.
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