‘It needs not that you tell me. She saw a pole-chair; that would be this Mr. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. 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. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood. ‘You do not think it is enough English.
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