" This readiness to surrender the coat to her surprised Ruth. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. He occupied one of the smaller houses near the station. Their small talk continued. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. 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. “But your sister,” he said.
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