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. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. All this muddle to placate his conscience! "Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. He moaned. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light.
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