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. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. It was as though he were personally aggrieved. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily. Wood the carpenter. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. The effects of the heroin wore off slowly. Mere formality. But it was only six-thirty.
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