Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. 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. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia.
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