" "Don't listen to him, father," cried Thames, unconscious of what was passing; "there are plenty of people outside. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. He gave an order, the proa was floated and the sail run up. 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.
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