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"Sir Rowland," he added, savagely, and with somewhat of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, "if it were my pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath. 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 went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. The less she lived, in fact, the better. "There's another instance of your wilfulness and want of taste. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare.
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