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. The chapel was crowded to excess. “Dear friend,” she said, “remember that you are speaking to one who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. She shut the door behind her. But I won't be cheated of my prize. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little.
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