Jackson’s. I feel a mixture of beast and uncle. 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. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. She had trembled on the verge of such a resolution before, but this time quite definitely she made it. It was no wonder, there was no money to buy food for the house.
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