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. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. He feared to antagonize that distinguished person. I do not love you. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. “I have given it up,” she answered.
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