“Anna!” she repeated. I’ve got no feminine class feeling. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. 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. So he resolved to try another tack. “Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard. And he liked her. Austin," continued the tapstress; "he's only going on an errand. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. Don’t think I can’t sympathize and understand.
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