“I am going,” he said, “to be impertinent. 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. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. I must see if I have a gown fit to wear. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. He made the universe on those lines. “But I am your husband,” he said. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. Everything in the world to live for!—fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! What was all this pother about hell as a future state? By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisible things. And when she took and married that Mr Charvill, we didn’t think to see her at Remenham House no more. But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones.
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