The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. 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. For you know that I have made up my mind to dig a little way into life single-handed. Such revelations she hoped would be considered out of place and inappropriate. “I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed.
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