Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. Nuns, I mean. 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. As soon as he gets into blue water, he'll think no more of pitching the boy overboard than of lighting his pipe. That window there…. ‘You are there.
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