“Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. I don’t think you understand. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. 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. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. He drew a little breath and stepped back.
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