Vot am I to do vith these young imps, eh?" "What you generally do with your prisoners, Mr. They are not your children, they never were. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. I do not know. 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.
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