He's down in Patagonia somewhere. 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. ” She wondered how much history she could reinvent before losing track of her own lies. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject.
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