“I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. She knew that the stairs they had to negotiate to the vestry were extremely narrow, and she had made her plans. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. 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.
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