‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. Jonathan smiled contemptuously. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. "I had a terrible dream last night.
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