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. . But if I were you, I shouldn't warn Spurlock. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. “But I am at singing-pitch. Abruptly she desisted, recoiled, and turned and fled up-stairs. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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