I stole away and walked to the railway station. He beamed as she whispered to 22 him that she had seen a table so fine or tasted such wonders. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. That is where life takes advantage of youth. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.
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