Jackson. “If it’s about that dance project,” he said, “it’s no good, Veronica. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. 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. The flight. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops.
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