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. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. She gripped his buttocks as she climaxed. Most of the tables were for those who smoked only and drank wine, but there were a few spread with tablecloths and laid for dinner. “All right?” he asked. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel.
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