The Blenheim coach was descending into the valley of the Avetere River -- pronounced Aveterry -- from the saddle of Taylor's Pass. Across the river to the right, the grey slopes and flats stretched away to the distant sea from a range of tussock hills. There was no native bush there; but there were several groves of imported timber standing wide apart -- sentinel-like -- seeming lonely and striking in their isolation.
"Grand country, New Zealand, eh? " said a stout man with a brown face, grey beard, and grey eyes, who sat between the driver and another passenger on the box.
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