Miss Stanley hesitated, and took first one and then another of the constituents of this costume off its peg and surveyed it. Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. 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. Alarmed by the noise of the scuffle, Quilt and Sharples rushed to the assistance of their comrade. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. As it is, we've only a couple of ducks—and they were intended for you. A young man, who had been spending the last hour walking up and down on the opposite side of the way, came quickly over to her.
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