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. It was a sovereign easily earned. . ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. ‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. Still no sound. I haven't forgotten her previous history.
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