It was something that Sebastian had refused to do, a lifestyle that he placed himself above. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. ’ ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ said the nun, evidently not mollified, but she was forestalled. Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the Thames. She heard the bamboo curtain rattle slightly. 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. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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