“If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. 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. Constantly sick with the croup or diaper rash. And tell Pottiswick to mend that lock we broke.
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