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. ‘That is true,’ Melusine conceded. I think I asked if I could eat lunch with her and Trisha Deere one day and she said there was no room at the table.
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