Goodbye. He was alarmed when she returned to the stage and her eyes passed over him in the audience. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. It was better even than the hymn-singing. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. 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. The devil is on top, not below.
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