That would come later. 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. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion. But, holy smoke!—the Yale spirit in…. He drew out the check and the editorial letter. \"What's in there?\" Lucy asked.
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