She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. 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. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. ‘You don’t know the whole, child. He carried a small bag. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things.
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