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. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. “It is possible,” Courtlaw said, “that you too were deceived. He glanced up at the coachman. Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. ‘I recall my father speaking of you as a Remenham.
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