I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. Why else?’ Gerald stared at her blankly. Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. Her hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. 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.
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