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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. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. Every word you utter puzzles me. He pushed her small hand into his jeans. "The speedy union of Thames Darrell with Winifred Wood," replied Jack. ” “But why?” “He’s married—and, I believe, living separated from his wife.
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