“Shari told me. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. ‘Wait! No time for that. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. "I have just parted from one," said Trenchard. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. ” “Perhaps I don’t. Come close to me, and let me hold your hand, dear. ’ This was Leonardo’s philosophy. They walked in silence. 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. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do.
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