The inn was a military haunt. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. 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. "Can't!" repeated his mother.
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