She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all. “My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house. 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. She had not nursed Leonardo for weeks for nothing.
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