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. Top-side insurance people. Best assured of that. He turned, and beheld Winifred. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco. There was no rush. She was guided into the dock and prompted by a helpful police inspector. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley.
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