She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. 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. Well, whenever you say, I promise to do away with the mystery. CHAPTER VI. Where is Sebastianus? I am Rhea.
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