“I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. 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 and Courtlaw drove homewards together. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. I waited for her at the back.
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