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”
“I thought I was old enough,” she gasped, between laughter and crying. "I can never get poor
Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after
his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. 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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This video was uploaded to flood-rescue.com on 04-07-2024 12:28:10