That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary. 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. “Fuck you, Julian Rimbauer. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured.
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