” She stopped. 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. He did not disturb any of this litter, but left it as a mark of his prowess. "How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?" "Put them where they came from," replied Mrs. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet.
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