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Chapter 2

           Rosemarysaid:"Oh,heis?"Shewasnotthinkinganythingspecial,exceptwonderingwhetherhermotherhadgottosleepinthisheat.

           "It’sontheideaofUlysses,"continuedMrs.McKisco."Onlyinsteadoftakingtwenty-fourhoursmyhusbandtakesahundredyears.HetakesadecayedoldFrencharistocratandputshimincontrastwiththemechanicalage"

           "Oh,forGod’ssake,Violet,don’tgotellingeverybodytheidea,"protestedMcKisco."Idon’twantittogetallaroundbeforethebook’spublished."

           Rosemaryswambacktotheshore,whereshethrewherpeignoiroverheralreadysoreshouldersandlaydownagaininthesun.Themanwiththejockeycapwasnowgoingfromumbrellatoumbrellacarryingabottleandlittleglassesinhishands;presentlyheandhisfriendsgrewlivelierandclosertogetherandnowtheywereallunderasingleassemblageofumbrellasshegatheredthatsomeonewasleavingandthatthiswasalastdrinkonthebeach.EventhechildrenknewthatexcitementwasgeneratingunderthatumbrellaandturnedtowarditanditseemedtoRosemarythatitallcamefromthemaninthejockeycap.

           NoondominatedseaandskyeventhewhitelineofCannes,fivemilesoff,hadfadedtoamirageofwhatwasfreshandcool;arobin-breastedsailingboatpulledinbehinditastrandfromtheouter,darkersea.Itseemedthattherewasnolifeanywhereinallthisexpanseofcoastexceptunderthefilteredsunlightofthoseumbrellas,wheresomethingwentonamidthecolorandthemurmur.

           Campionwalkednearher,stoodafewfeetawayandRosemaryclosedhereyes,pretendingtobeasleep;thenshehalf-openedthemandwatchedtwodim,blurredpillarsthatwerelegs.

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