155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. 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.
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