Roused by the bell tolling for evening
service, Jack left the house. 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. ‘You are wise, Marthe. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess,
reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. ’ She
stopped, for Jack was feebly laughing. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. ‘You’re not going to kill me
this time. ”
“Why do you think so?” she asked.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 27-06-2024 06:30:20