’ Melusine was beginning to fill with dread and a burgeoning of anger as the meaning behind his words began to penetrate. Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. 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. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket.
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