She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. 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. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. ” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. “But, forgive me, you are tired. We’re partly human beings and partly females in suspense.
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