’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. 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 crept into the living room and turned off the set, adjusting Cathy’s blanket which had fallen to the carpeted floor.
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