He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. 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.
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