Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by emotion. 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. He was a stranger. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart. He understood. "Now come along, Jack. By this time, the procession had reached the west end of the wall of St. And Mother trusted him. She remained standing stiffly, unable even to move.
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