Gerald began to ease forward, deciding just how he would accost her. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. "Let me see the earth thrown over her," implored Jack; "and take me where you please. You went even to our rooms and saw my sister. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. The terrific mental tension of the past few months —that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves.
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