Frequently she would doze in her chair; but the slightest movement on the bed aroused her. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. ‘Assuming she can prove her identity, does Remenham House belong to her?’ Mrs Sindlesham shifted her shoulders. Its importance had vanished with her abandonment of compromise. He looked distant, irritated. 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. “It’s very good,” she said. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door.
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