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. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. "But are you really there?" "No, I'm here," answered Jack, leaping down. “Sure, are you sure you’re okay?” He exited off the highway onto a quiet road and pulled over.
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