I cannot live without you, Anna. ’ ‘Probably not. 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. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. Everybody talking of you. She felt sickeningly empty. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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