’ ‘Ha! You’re Catholic, too, damn his eyes,’ growled the general. She owed the nun a great deal, including her command of English, for no one else thought to ensure she could speak her mother tongue. His mouth was sensuous but his eyes became frenetic. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it.
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