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. They are the only happy women in the Orient. Yet he stays. I might have known it. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it.
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