“No, stay, Lucy. 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. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes.
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