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. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. Suddenly he came to a stop, his mouth agape. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister. I do not blame you for the act. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her.
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