"George and the lost gasolene are not everything.

Five hours, with anything of a wind, would bring us to Harbour Island, and--with this paper in my hand it would be--what do you think yourself ?--the gallows ?" My friend grew grave at that, and seemed to be thinking hard inside, making resolutions the full force of which I didn't understand till later, but the immediate result of which was a graciousness of manner which did not entirely deceive me.
"O" he said, "I don't think you quite mean that.

You're impulsive--as when you hit that poor boy down there--" "Well," I observed, "I'm willing to treat you better than you deserve.
At the same time, you must admit that your manifesto, as I suppose you would call it, is justified neither by conditions nor by your own best sense.

You yourself are far more English than you are anything else--you know it; you know how hard it is for white men to live with black men, and--to tell the truth--all they do for them.

The mere smell of negroes is no more pleasant to you than it is to many other white men.
Englishmen have exiled themselves, for absurdly small salaries, to try to make life finer and cleaner for those dark--and, I'll admit, pathetic--barbarians.