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 feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so.
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