At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. She is a woman chosen in youth for her beauty and her intelligence. “My wife. 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. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. Shall we turn back?" "And disappoint Mr. ’ ‘Don’t be a fool, woman,’ snapped Charvill, thrusting himself further into the room. And he who opposes me in it shall feel the weight of my hand. " "Advanced them rather," replied Gay, in the same tone. .
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