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 went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. We went our ways. ” “You shall not need either,” Brendon said grimly. ‘She’s perfectly right. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you.
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