CHAPTER XXII. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. In the corner of the room were two hockey-sticks and a tennis-racket, and upon the walls Ann Veronica, by means of autotypes, had indicated her proclivities in art.
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