No one in the world is beyond the shaft of scandal— we all catch it terribly sometimes. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. 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. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. But she was not to be tempted. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down. ‘So now we come to it. “I’d sooner condemn you to Hell.
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