The Storm. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. “There is my aunt,” she said. “It was such a surprise to see you. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death.
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