This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. This time they would call it murder. Stanley, “I am anxious. "Who is it, Bess?" "How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. . It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. 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. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more.
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