"Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November. It’s best. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. 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. He stepped back further.
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