The air was thick with feelings. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. 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 must have been very wound up. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd.
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