CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. They sold him the whisky. “Ritter’s!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street. “Well?” she said. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness.
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