"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. ‘And me?’ ‘Oh, you’re mad because you wish to blow off my head. ’ He nodded. 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. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice. It’s your way of glossing over the ethical position.
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