She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. Opals. 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. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. " "Didn't some of them … try to touch you?" "Not the true unfortunates. " "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued.
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