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 for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. In this letter, which is addressed to my ill-fated mother, he speaks of his friendship for Sir Rowland, whom it seems he had known abroad; but entreats her to keep the marriage secret for a time, for reasons which are not fully developed. An extra pair of gym clothes materialized within fractions of a second. Perhaps it was loneliness.
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