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. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. Just now the waterchestnuts…. “Hello? She’s like, your girlfriend, not mine. I suppose you have come to see your granddaughter. He knew that he could translate literally.
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