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When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly. 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. You sing better than Annabel ever did, you have even a better style. No, none at all. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. Much to my amazement, as soon as I was in her presence I forgot about my magic and thought only of love. By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen.

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