‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. 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. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.
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