There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical. 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. “Nobody understands them, of course, but we all look as though we did. The boy she had loved was gone. I cannot do it, David. ” His voice conveyed studied moderation.
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