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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. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. Then he turned to Anna. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks.
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