Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. “Ohmigod! You totally sounded like my grandmother just now!” Michelle exclaimed. 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 has heard of your wonderful escapes, and wishes to see what you're like.
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