Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. So there is no escape. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. Women! He is always chanting the praise of some discovery; sometimes it will be a native, often a white woman out of the stews. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said.
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