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. Manning relinquished his cup, and looked meaningly at Ann Veronica. She opened the door to him herself. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace.
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