“They have no plans for us. 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. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. There was also the daunting task of getting dressed. He went to the door. From midnight until morning he was now left alone. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. Gerald stayed him. There are way-stations—even terminals. Almost light-heartedly.
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