Upon this island whither he was bound there would be no diversions, breathing spells; the battle would be constant. 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. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured.
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