“Lucy, are you feeling all right?” He asked concernedly. "You've got to kill me to get out of here alive. I’m leaving you, and you can’t stop me. He would pull this young fellow back; but later he knew that he would have to fight the boy's lack of will to live. Lucy’s bright tones pursued her. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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