" "And never should again, were he mine," rejoined Jonathan. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. It was a unique experience for her to wash him. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. "Auntie?" he cried. 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 would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents.
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