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. It comes over the mountains, Anna, pink darkening into orange red, everywhere a wonderful cloud sea, scintillating with colour. She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her. Her head ached with a hollow pain. I doubt if you will receive anything for your trouble. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. I want you to be my wife.
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