‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. At second hand it would be unendurable.
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