Not like my father. 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. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued.
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