" Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad spectacle. Mrs. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. And talking of every conceivable thing. She took a few of his things before she scanned the area. Then he sensed the trap. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. 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. Wild in his own domain. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. “You are certain of this. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. Perhaps she would have to charge this man and appear in a police-court next day. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. ” He recognized the force, almost the passion, which trembled in her tone, and he at once abandoned the subject.
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