The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved. “Now,” he said, quietly, “it’s time we stopped this nonsense. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. “These are the sort of things that aren’t supposed to happen. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards— but one crosses it sometimes.
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