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. Day by day she followed the spiritual and physical contest between this man and woman. ‘Melusine, don’t sit there. ’ ‘A life of ease?’ repeated Melusine. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery.
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