“Think of that check you endorsed. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Mike seemed visibly happier at her remark. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. I can get that at the bar," the manager said, curtly. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. Everything had so far come to pass as the withered old Kanaka woman had foretold.
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