How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. She was still fully dressed; so all she had to do was to pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats. I gather you wish to go up in some fantastic get-up, wrapped about in your opera cloak, and that after the festivities you propose to stay with these friends of yours, and without any older people in your party, at an hotel. 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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