’ ‘You ain’t never,’ gasped Pottiswick. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. 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. But with the skill of a fencer he met the blow and broke it, seizing the wrist. She had eaten them.
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