He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. He saw now that it was merely a boy. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below. 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. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder.
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