‘It does not matter, Jacques. 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. I want you to turn me. Sheppard, paralysed by the threat. You never can go back. The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling.
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