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. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. “I’m going to kill your weakness for you. How dare you use my name and sing my songs?” Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement.
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