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. There's the paragraph. She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. But I never seen Mr Charvill, and when the Frenchie come out, I followed him again, like you told me.
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