" So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the typhoon, and how they became regenerated by their magnificent courage. "Thank Heaven! I'm not basely born. ’ That wonderful poster—is of you. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before.
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