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. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression.
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