The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. But, hang it, I know it's good!" "Of course it is!" In the afternoon he began work on another tale.
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