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She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. ” “Then, whoever he may be, he is not Meysey Hill,” Courtlaw said. “I HAVE—had one or two talks with him, daddy. 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. CHAPTER XXI.
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