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. I don't know what you have done; I don't want to know now. \"Drives a red Jeep?\" \"Uh-huh. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died.
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