“You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley. Why did he care? “I could never marry a girl who’s not a virgin. Without a word, the general reached out and took them, but his glance searched the girl’s face. 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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