Section 3. ‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should say the similarity ends. 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. The Storm. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world. I shall lose my fees and the laced coat. She had found him! Excitement welled.
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