He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. “If it’s about that dance project,” he said, “it’s no good, Veronica. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Everything had so far come to pass as the withered old Kanaka woman had foretold.
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