“Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. I sha'n't utter a word. "You don't say so!" replied Mrs. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that.
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