Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. 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. "You are," replied Kneebone. He backed away from her.
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