“Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. 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. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been.
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