“If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time. You cannot—shall not retreat. My son went down after his death. It is with the building raised after this direful calamity that our history has to deal. ” He relapsed into a stony silence. 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.
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