Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble. His chest heaved violently, and big tears coursed rapidly down his cheeks. 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. " He rose for fear she might touch him again. .
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