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. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. “After all,” she said, “if this person will not be reasonable, I am afraid——” It was enough. " "Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance. She thrashed and screamed as he wrestled her back towards the bed. "An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested.
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