He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. 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. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. I might have told you the truth.
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