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. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. He uttered a short laugh. I shall give you my life, every moment and thought of my life.
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