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. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. And the woman who showed this room was tall, with an understanding eye and the quiet manner of the well-trained servant. He slid out of her. ’ ‘Very good, ma’am.
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