Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. To preach a fine sermon every Sunday so that he would lose neither the art nor the impulse; and this child, in secret rebellion, taking it down in long hand during odd hours in the week! Preaching grandiloquently before a few score natives who understood little beyond the gestures, for the single purpose of warding off disintegration! It reminded the doctor of a stubborn retreat; from barricade to barricade, grimly fighting to keep the enemy at bay, that insidious enemy of the white man in the South Seas—inertia. She gave her a wink when John had turned to ask Mark if Lucy could ride home with them. " "I'm sorry. No matter.
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