Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. 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. Who is the beautiful intruder? And why does she disguise herself as a nun? Why is she involved in an enterprise both foolhardy and dangerous? The girl’s accent suggests an émigré but Mademoiselle insists she is English. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. Men do services for the love of women, and the woman who takes must pay. I can't run in these heavy fetters. From what do you wish to be rescued?’ The girl fluttered her eyelashes, sighed dramatically and spread her hands. Once before—but that had been different. He watched her, savoring her curious attention. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. I may add that the family is well known to me. Her English was halting.
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