She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. “Look at me. 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 hugged Lucy, who had finished eating. "I do," replied Jack, carelessly.
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