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. “Indeed, I must implore you to return. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. Like stealing.
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