"'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. ’ ‘But I have told you not,’ she protested. 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.
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