"And Jack?" "Gone too," sobbed his daughter. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. . 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 was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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