Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. 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. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. ‘Certainly you are imbecile.
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