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Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out. " "By the way, did you read those stories?" "Yes. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. 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.
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