He shot at me at the ‘Unusual,’ and the magistrates bound him over to keep the peace. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. 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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