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‘I do not know how you think you may help me,’ she said slowly. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. It might be that the boy had taken one drink too many, or someone had given him knock-out drops. 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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