“No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued. “I can get very angry. I haven't touched the other. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. ‘Still more would I be so if he had come himself to tell me this. 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. I tried to have it out with him, but he wouldn’t have it out. Ruth came to him directly.
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