"Now, give me the woollen cloth to tie round my fetters," whispered Sheppard. 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. " "But that style isn't Oriental. ’ ‘Eh bien, what then?’ Emile sidled closer.
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