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‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. ” For a time she sat on a rail before leaving the road for the downland turf. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. 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. So he resolved to try another tack.
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