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. I don’t feel it. It reverberated in the silence. Michelle answered the door. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble.
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