Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. "Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Hollander, shaking his head in reply;—"very bad —very. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn't incurred my displeasure. The girl is in it as deeply as he is. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. I will take her back. ” “Why?” she asked. 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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