They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. 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. I can talk with them. “Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. ” “Why? What did Missy ever do to piss her off? What did I do?” Lucy asked, growing defensive. I would like to have to tell it so.
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