“That’s all,” she said “I’m afraid I’m a little confused about these things. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. Shari managed it after graduating beauty school. 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 had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked.
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