CHAPTER XXIX. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. 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. Wood, who appeared to be collecting her energies for a terrible explosion, "in the hope that they may prove acceptable. “Was it terrible for you after he died?” “Don’t worry yourself about it John. " "Degrade herself," rejoined Jonathan, brutally.
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