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 felt the softest touch caress her cheek, and a wave of tenderness engulfed Melusine. “You see,” he said, “from my point of view you’re grown up— you’re as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. “This ain’t no place for you. Most of them didn’t, anyhow. “The fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. “Yes, John.
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