It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. 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.
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