She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. After all, what could happen? He was looking at her very hard and earnestly. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. Mr. 32 The curtains and tapestries had appeared over the windows before Marina had died, growing moldy from the dampness and the oils of lavender, clove, and clary sage soaking them.
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