” She said. 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. “Allow me. "Well, lad, supposing you read what the editor has to say?" was McClintock's suggestion, when the frolic was over. It was a brief solitude, however. Paris is not the place for two young girls. " Spurlock laughed.
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