Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. ‘For my money, you’ll not get much out of old Jarvis either. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. 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. Imbecile. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea.
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