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. Now she knew why the soldiers had not caught him. “Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors.
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