There was a photo of her that looked exactly like you. 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. The first stroke appeared to arouse all the vindictive passions of Jonathan. It’s my choice, Lucy. ‘To see Charvill. Look at me.
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