‘Only perhaps I can more readily do so if you will put down that pistol. He sent me flowers. 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. She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect.
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