Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. She ran away from you; and now I can easily understand why. 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. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. I love him as a brother.
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