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Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. 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. "I haven't offended you?"—not contritely but curiously.
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