“To the view that all women ought to have votes whether they like it or not. "What is this?" she wanted to know. "Something's wrong. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. 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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