“I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. Mr. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. 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. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. She did not twitch. A moistened velvet touch found her tongue.
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