Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. A bad man, in fact. They mean everything that women can mean—except submission. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. Never mind. He really deserves a better fate, does he not? He is so beautifully persistent. “Gellett,” he called, “just come and clear up a mess, will you? I’ve smashed some things. 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. The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye.
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