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. "Well, Sir?" gasped Sir Rowland. One doesn’t want to lose a grain. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. And now her father said she must not go. There was no one to be seen. “I had a visit from Sir John in my rooms,” she said. .
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