Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered. At the Palazzo, the cook’s cook had a team of servants under him. After all, it was really rather funny. The signal of distress was evidently understood. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. And she was as shrewd as they come. "His lordship desires me to say—ough! ough!" Fresh groans and hisses. “I can’t endure it,” she said. 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.
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