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. Not if I read her aright. A species of vertigo seized him. She opened the door to him herself. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. ’ ‘That wasn’t my fault.
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