They cleaned up the mess as best they could and she went home with him docilely. We dine at seven-thirty. More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison. He remembered that he had heard stories about the wonderful likeness between these two sisters, one of whom was an artist and a recluse, whilst the other had attached herself to a very gay and a very brilliant little coterie of pleasure-seekers. She heard the television blaring away. 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. Having once more got into the chimney, he climbed to a level with the ward above, and recommenced operations as vigorously as before. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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