I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. Cathy Beck was outraged. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. 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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