Nevertheless she resumes walking, though she has now forgotten where she was going. The moist, warm air of the tropical night is laden with smells: over-ripe fruit or sickly-sweet flowers, mingled with iodine and slime. The pieces of jetsam dotted all over the flat, gleaming strand are like the discarded objects of some old, abandoned story: an apple core, a broken chair, the skeletal framework of a wrought-iron bed, Angelica's pink-and-white beach ball is there too, serving no purpose now, as well as several clear light-bulbs: at least such is one's first impression on seeing these small, scattered bubbles, all white and shiny; looked at more closely, however, their completely spherical shape, lacking any sort of cap by means of which they could be screwed into a socket, makes that application most unlikely. No, these must in fact be the eggs of some chimera, dredged up from the depths of the ocean by the high tides.