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. Lucy acted the part of savoring the end of the meal, but it was difficult. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. Wait a moment. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. ’ So pat, thought Gerald.
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