" "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. "Since the sea has spared him, I will spare him. 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. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. By and by he ventured to peer into this window.
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