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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. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. " And, having partaken of a hasty breakfast, he set out. . I’ll go after them and kill him. The youth of them! And what was he going to do when they left his island? What would Donald McClintock be doing with himself, when youth left the island, never more to return? Ruth was thrilling with joy. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword.
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