‘Idiot. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all. 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. She hurried with Jack as fast as she could to the open door to the passage. He did not love Ruth. She kicked both of her legs with the force of a bull, sending a blow into Rhea’s borrowed legs.
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