“Would you wait for me?” Manning was silent for a space. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. 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. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. Here, it might be anything at all. It isn't your duty. We are very poor, but manage to squeeze a little happiness out of each day.
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