‘Come,’ she called. Lucy entered the house by picking the back door lock with the slim jim. Perhaps she did love research for its own sake, she was certainly gifted enough. 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 gasped with pain, but she did not release her grip.
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