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. ’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. “I am not in need of any. The ladder was now within reach. ” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside.
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