Maggot, bursting into a loud contemptuous laugh. “Soul to soul. I believe that he will marry her. When I was younger, I was very sick with a deadly flu. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. 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. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered.
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