Part 4 At eight that evening Miss Stanley tapped at Ann Veronica’s bedroom door. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. " "Tush!" cried Thames; "you accused me to skreen yourself. He never retires to rest till daybreak—if at all. 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.
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