“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. 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. Girls screamed in chorus. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not.
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