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. Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to tell. "But you are a good man, and you'll understand. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over. " "I see," remarked Kneebone. " There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess. " "You never told me what he is like," said Spurlock.
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