Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. When he returned from pissing, he sat down with her. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. 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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