” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. 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. ” She implored him. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. “Tell me,” he said; “speak to me.
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