"Your sympathy is being wasted. Everything had so far come to pass as the withered old Kanaka woman had foretold. 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. ’ ‘Nonsense. " "Come along," thundered Jonathan. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. Lose not a moment, Hobson.
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