“Are there others like you?” “Yes. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. It is like some accident. 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. Too much, perhaps. Are you satisfied?’ Grudgingly, Jack Kimble took back the coins.
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