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. It was dawn: Cathy would soon be off to the restaurant and Larry off to paint a house. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke.
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