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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 want a walk. ’ ‘Don’t call me by name,’ she snapped. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. For a long time he remained standing before the fire, staring at the situation.
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