She approached her face to the palm, and pored over it without touching it.
"It is too fine," said she.

"I can make nothing of such a hand as that; almost without lines: besides, what is in a palm?
Destiny is not written there." "I believe you," said I.
"No," she continued, "it is in the face: on the forehead, about the eyes, in the lines of the mouth.

Kneel, and lift up your head." "Ah! now you are coming to reality," I said, as I obeyed her.

"I shall begin to put some faith in you presently." I knelt within half a yard of her.

She stirred the fire, so that a ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare, however, as she sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow: mine, it illumined.
"I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night," she said, when she had examined me a while.