Then she went below. 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. Well, I told aunt. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him. I’m very resourceful, you know.
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