‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. Got the day off. 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. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. . ’ Hilary stared. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. " "Perhaps I read of it somewhere.
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