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. ” She said fretfully. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. But to confess about Gerald— no, a thousand times. "You know this is a pet project.
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