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"Dick," he said, "this house of mine stands between your house and the forest. It stands on the borders of the trees, on the edge of the swamp. Is that why you always prefer it to your own?"
Hatteras turned his head quickly towards his companion, almost suspiciously. Then he looked back into the darkness, and after a little he said:--
"It's not only the things you care about,newport cigarettes online, old man,economic growth doesn't bring with it a correspond, which tug at you, it's the things you hate as well. I hate this country. I hate these miles and miles of mangroves,newport red cigarettes, and yet I am fascinated. I can't get the forest and the undergrowth out of my mind. I dream of them at nights. I dream that I am sinking into that black oily batter of mud. Listen,marlboro lights," and he suddenly broke off with his head stretched forwards. "Doesn't it sound wicked?"
"But all this talk about London?" cried Walker.
"Oh, don't you understand?" interrupted Hatteras roughly. Then he changed his tone and gave his reason. "One has to struggle against a fascination of that sort. It's devil's work. So for all I am worth I talk about London."
"Look here, Dick," said Walker. "You had better get leave and go back to the old country for a spell."
"A very solid piece of advice," said Hatteras, and he went home to the Residency.
The next morning he had again disappeared. But Walker discovered upon his table a couple of new volumes. He glanced at the titles. They were Burton's account of his pilgrimage to al-Madinah and Mecca.