He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. The boy had all kinds of opportunity; but it's the old story of father making it too easy. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked. 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. "Do you see any likeness?" "Don't I," returned Jack, bitterly. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York.
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