She aimed directly at Rhea’s head. She let out a wail. 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. Rhea went down, screeching and clawing at the air for the sword, which clanked heavily on the ground. .
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