Now I do. 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. ” “He only heard this afternoon,” Sydney continued. Mr. ” She leaned back amongst the cushions of her chair. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. ” “I suppose I must have thought so.
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