" The Wastrel advanced. org. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend 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. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. “Does it hurt?” Michelle asked. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads.
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