Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. But he was not a father one could make much of. ” Hill staggered to his feet and drew a folded paper from his pocket. Bring me clothing, I beg of you. 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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