. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. 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 swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. She hugged Lucy, who had finished eating. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said.
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