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Updated: May 15, 2025
Then after a pause added in a mutter: "Pitch dark." "Aye, dark enough," murmured Lingard. He must do something. Now. At once. The world was waiting. The world full of hopes and fear. What should he do? Instead of answering that question he traced the ungleaming coils of her twisted hair and became fascinated by a stray lock at her neck. What should he do? No one to leave his brig to.
Instead of shuddering and turning back, he fixed his eye upon the glittering prize. "It is thine," whispered the tempter, "the hand that holds so fair a pearl is all unworthy. It chafes and frets within the cruel grasp which an ungleaming pebble might fill as well. It would glow in the sunlight of your fostering care.
White of the walls, white of her face, white of the pallet the rest a breathless, ungleaming shadow that held a heat not from the sun, as it seemed, but from the centre of the earth. . . . Skag was away in timelessness and an unfamiliar space. This space was not fixed to one dimension, but moved back and forth.
Oh, the shoes, the shoes that a non-manufacturing country with closed ports had to make in haste and send its soldiers! Oh, the muskets, heavy, dull, ungleaming, weighting the fiercely aching shoulders! Oh, the snow, mounded on cap, on cartridge box, on rolled blanket and haversack. Oh, the northwest wind like a lash, the pinched stomach, the dry lips, the wavering sight, the weariness excessive!
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