‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. There was little fighting spirit here. “I have answered all your questions,” she said. Everybody breathed a collective sigh of relief in the neighborhood, no one wanted to see how those kids would grow up. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs.
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