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. Her lips parted, but no words came. Raising him in his arms, Jonathan passed the rope round his body, and in this way the poor boy was drawn up without difficulty. The sharp point of the sword at the girl’s throat bit sideways.
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