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. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. The latter took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil. He was a handsome man, and Lucy could see the strong resemblance of John to him. ‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly.
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