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. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one.
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