But he didn’t marry her. And he liked her. 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. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. ” She replied.
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