“I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. 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. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked.
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