“Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. Perhaps you will explain the state of panic into which I seem to have thrown you. 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. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. Spurling.
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