Nothing seemed to be amiss. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. 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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