"Don't stir," replied Jack. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. 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. She knew his appetite from many a homemade dinner and knew also that he had taken Bitch Vorsack’s comments to heart.
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