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That" indicating the cripple "is her son." "Good God!" Witherbee exclaimed. "Madame Picard! The mamaloi!" "The the what?" But Simpson had heard well enough. "The mamaloi the mamaloi high priestess of voodoo." "Her house is fairly clean," Simpson said. He was hardly aware of his own inconsequence.
He'll follow any design you give him, and the woods, of course, are excellent." "Yes. He showed me some. But he's more than a carpenter to me. He's more receptive than most of the natives, and it seems that his shop is a gathering place a centre. He asked me to come in the evenings." "And drink rum?" Witherbee could not resist that. "Ye-es. He said they drank rum.
Witherbee lit the cigar "Human sacrifice." "And the Roman Church does nothing!" There was exultation in Simpson's voice. His distrust of the Roman Church had been aggravated by his encounter with the black priest that morning. "The Roman Church does what it can. It's been unfortunate in its instruments. Especially unfortunate now." "Father Antoine?" "Father Antoine. You met him?" "This morning.
A brute, and nothing more." "Just that." Witherbee let a mouthful of smoke drift into the motionless air. "It's curious," he said. "What is?" "Father Antoine will make it unpleasant for you. He may try to have you knifed, or something." "Impossible!" "Not at all. Human life is worth nothing here. No wonder it's not really worth living. But you're safe enough, and that's the curious thing."
It was the first time since the day of his arrival that he had seen Witherbee to speak to, and he found it a relief to speak in his own language and without calculating the result of his words. "A carpenter? Vieux Michaud, I suppose?" "That's his name. You know him?" "Very well." The consul tipped back his chair and tapped his lips with a pencil. "Very well. He's a clever workman.
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