In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. There must be something behind the missioner's actions, something of which the girl knew nothing nor suspected. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United States.
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