As Stanley Patterson said to his wife, where
the two of them lolled wet in the sand by the tiny fresh-water
stream that the Bartons waded in order to gain the Outrigger Club
beach:
"Lord god of models and marvels, behold them! My dear, did you
ever see two such legs on one small woman! Look at the roundness
and taperingness. They're boy's legs. I've seen featherweights go
into the ring with legs like those. And they're all-woman's legs,
too. Never mistake them in the world. The arc of the front line
of that upper leg! And the balanced adequate fullness at the back!
And the way the opposing curves slender in to the knee that IS a
knee! Makes my fingers itch. Wish I had some clay right now."
"It's a true human knee," his wife concurred, no less breathlessly;
for, like her husband, she was a sculptor. "Look at the joint of
it working under the skin. It's got form, and blessedly is not
covered by a bag of fat." She paused to sigh, thinking of her own
knees. "It's correct, and beautiful, and dainty. Charm! If ever
I beheld the charm of flesh, it is now.
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