Some one was standing beside him. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. “I remember you now,” he said. “They ought to have been lopped in the spring. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his.
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