There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming. It is Thérèse. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. "Without proper medical care, he would have been dead by morning. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. 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. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. Give me the chisel, Blueskin.
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