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. ” “I sent a telegram, aunt,” said Ann Veronica. " Spurlock pointed in the sloping fields outside the walls. A cool gray light illuminated small portions of the stone floor. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede.
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