" A peculiar smile illuminated Jack's features. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. 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 was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before.
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