’ ‘What offer?’ she asked, suspicion rife in her voice. " "Mr. 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. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. Birthdays just ain’t the same once you get old kiddo.
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