"What do you mean by pretty, Getaway?"
"Pep. Peaches. Cream. Teeth. Yellow hair. Arms. Le—those little holes in your cheeks. Dimples. What do I mean by pretty? I mean you by pretty. Ain't that what you want me to mean by pretty?"
"Yes—and no—"
"Well, what the—"
"It's all right, Getaway. It's fine to be pretty, but—not enough—somehow. I—I can't explain it to you—to anybody. I guess pretty isn't the word. It's beauty I mean."
"All right, then, anything your little heart desires—beauty."
"The ocean beauty out there, I mean. Something that makes you hurt and want to hurt more and more. Beauty, Getaway. It's something you understand or something you don't. It can't be talked. It sounds silly."
"Well, then, whistle it!"
"It has to be felt."
"Peel me," he said, laying her arm to his bare bicep. "Some little gladiator, eh? Knock the stuffings out of any guy that tried to take you away from me."