‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. To fight inertia on the one hand and to study this queer girl on the other. "Stop!" groaned Blueskin. Why doesn’t she marry? Plenty of money under her father’s will. 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.
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