The clear, wonderful eyes, the delicate eyebrows, the masses of dark hair, the scarlet lips.

He saw her white throat swelling underneath her muslin blouse.

The daintiness of her gown, airy and simple, yet fresh from a Paris workshop.

The stockings and shoes, exquisite, but strangely out of place with their high heels buried in the sand.
"How do I know," she demanded, "that I am not one of the children of the cities, that I was not fashioned and made for the gas-lit life, to eat unreal food at unreal hours, and feed my brain upon the unreal epigrams of the men whom you would call decadents.

Two days here, a week--very well.