Everything had so far come to pass as the withered old Kanaka woman had foretold. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. You must tell me what it all means. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Taber? There is a possibility.
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