Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. 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. She felt a new warmth in her blood, a strange sense of elation crept over her. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm.
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