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. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. ‘Point it at me.
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