"My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. ” “Well, he was presumptuous,” Annabel remarked, “and he wasn’t nice about it. ‘One would take it that the house had been ransacked. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. 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. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp.
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