The movement was fatal to her son. "To-night you shall be my wedded wife. 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. But then Lady Palsworthy had never seen Ann Veronica running like the wind at hockey.
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