“I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. I loved her and made love to her, and I don’t think she quite loved me back in the same way. The one through which she had come and Gosse had entered behind her. No matter. 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. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. He's a model of conjugal attachment and fidelity, a pattern to his family, and an example to his neighbours. See paragraph 1.
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