” Mike’s head butted in the door. 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. ” “Call it what you like,” Anna answered. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. ” He stuttered. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. Happy Birthday, then.
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