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. ” She noted that as a good saying, and it germinated and spread tentacles of explanation through her brain. His sister followed. “It is such a very respectable boarding-house,” she said. All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth.
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