6. ” “She doesn’t develop a specialty. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. 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. She would never, never go back. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. "Tell me the truth, I implore you," cried Thames. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted.
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