I'm not hungry. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. 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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This video was uploaded to ghqzgj.com on 17-05-2024 18:04:22
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