Could she hold him and manage the reins? If only Gerald had not gone. 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. ’ ‘And now we know also who is the prétendant, Mademoiselle Charvill.
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