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The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. 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. "You forgot your lunch," she said. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. “Yes. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. She calmed herself, breathing deeply. "This gentleman wants a pair of oars," said the landlord.
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