I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. 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. And were you to load me with thrice the weight of iron you have ordered you should not prevent my escaping a third time.
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