Tears sprang to her eyes. 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 seemed to be about to move toward her. “Ever yours, “ANNABEL. "You frighten the cull out of his senses. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. Moments are ages now. She was suddenly grave.
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