“Flesh and flowers are all alike to me. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. 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. "My child!" he groaned faintly. He hesitated for a moment and then he followed her. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her.
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