Chapter Twenty-Three
His arms stretched out. “Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber, in a lull of the fires of thy life, Of the days without name, without number, when thy will stung the world into strife; When, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion, smote kings as they reveled in Rome; and they hailed thee re-risen, O Thalassian, Foam-white, from the foam?” It was from Dolores again. Corinne recognized it.
“Foam-white, from the foam.”
Liquid trickled below her waist. She felt hot. Aroused.
“When thy lips had such lovers to flatter; When the city lay red from thy rods,
And thine hands were as arrows to scatter. The children of change and their gods; When the blood of thy foemen made fervent, a sand never moist from the main. As one smote them, their lord and thy servant, Our Lady of
