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. No matter how much you tell me, you will always keep something back. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. "They imagine their work is done. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said.
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