" "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. Or had you not noticed?’ He sneered. “I shall not agree to six. ” Lucy looked at Michelle sympathetically. He kissed her deeply and hungrily. “Annabel;” he moaned. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. 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.
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