I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. 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. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. Sweatshirts and sweatpants were in for a while but they’re out now. “Hand me the Jergens lotion, will you? How’d it go with John?” She asked. “I’d give anything,” he remarked, “to see our little Vee happily and comfortably married.
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