He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. You know—I worship you. “I guess I’m not the only one who wonders about your past. Wait a second. I decided to go in and wait.
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