You’d make a good Devil. 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. She had no idea what she should do. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. " "You mustn't think of that, Mrs. Down in my part of the world it's all a man has to go by. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. " "Oh. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.
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