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. Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. Do not disquiet yourself. You denied it at the time—but unfortunately I have proof. She was finally dead, going to Hell. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea.
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