“The conventions do not matter one little bit. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. 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. But, perhaps, you'll first accompany me to my dwelling for a moment, that we may arrange our accounts before we start. "We must keep still.
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