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. “I see the pointer,” she said. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project.
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