Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. 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 want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. “The Chens must already be here.
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