It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. To have you is all important. On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. 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. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. It seemed at first the most beautiful afternoon of all time to her, and perhaps the thrill of her excitement did add a distinctive and culminating keenness to the day. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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