The papers are continually wondering what has become of ‘Alcide. 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. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier.
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