“You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. She donned her gloves. It opened and a nun’s head popped out. 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. His eyes were red. And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle. As no apprehension was entertained of an escape by this outlet,—nothing of the kind having been attempted by the boldest felon ever incarcerated in Newgate,—both doors were generally left open during the daytime. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands.
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