“He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. "Close the doors below! Loose the dogs! Curses! they don't hear me! I'll ring the alarm-bell. "You open it, Ruth. 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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